Chapter Seventeen Maria

Chapter Seventeen

Maria

Salzburg, Austria

1934

Well, Fran, I suppose you are waiting for the illustrious Max Detweiler to make his appearance, and for us to plan a daring escape from the Nazis just as we are about to give our performance. But these are your scriptwriters' fanciful creations. We won't meet our smooth-talking manager, Fred Schang, until we reach America four years from now. And on this beautiful day in September, Hitler is still Germany's problem. A month ago, the Germans went and elected him president, only to have him abolish the office and declare himself Führer a few weeks later. But we are Austrian, and if our westerly neighbors are misguided enough to elect themselves a dictator, we don't wish it to be any concern of ours.

Of course, I know now what a foolish attitude this is. But on that crisp fall morning, my only concern is to find our skirts and braid everyone's hair. The boys can easily sort themselves out, but the girls need matching dirndls and starched white blouses. Plus, Rosmarie has gone missing again. This time, I send Agathe to find her.

"And make sure she's dressed," I say. "And braid her hair."

"What if she doesn't want to sing?"

I give Agathe a long look. Rosmarie is mine from birth. She was born for this. And if Lorli can manage to stand there and try her best at three, then Rosmarie can certainly do it at six. I tell this to Agathe, and she hurries down the hall to start the pleading.

Lotte, who is taking coffee in our dining room, finds all the commotion hilarious. But I have to bite my tongue when Lorli comes to me with ripped stockings and Martina can't find the right dirndl. "We are going with green today," I say, pausing outside Martina's room and forcing myself to breathe. "So find your green one, and Lorli—" I spin around. "Find some new stockings!"

Lorli stops in the hallway and begins to cry. "But I don't want new stockings."

"That doesn't matter!" I hiss. "You can't go like that!" I try to focus, but what I want to do is scream. At Martina, who should know we must color coordinate. At Agathe, who is still down the hall pleading with Rosmarie. At Lorli, for being too young to fetch the stockings herself. And at the boys, who are already dressed and gathered in Rupert's room, wasting their time listening as he recounts some foolish cricket match he played at his university. Shouldn't they be helping Martina find her skirt? Or dragging Rosmarie from her hiding place?

It's a miracle that we are ready by noon.

"We have to leave now if we're to be there on time," I say, hurrying to tie a green ribbon in Hedwig's hair. "Where's Georg?" I shout. No doubt in the library, enjoying his pipe. "Has Father Wasner arrived? Is everyone ready?" A line of children stretches down the hall. I take a quick head count and down we go.

Lotte rises from her chair as soon as she sees us. And I suppose we do make an interesting sight, with all ten of us dressed in matching green lederhosen and dirndl. "My goodness." Her blue eyes are wide with some emotion I can't pin down. Disbelief? Admiration? "Your whole family!"

"Even Georg," I say, who arrives on cue with his pipe. "He can be our manager."

But he holds up his hands. "Oh, no."

Rupert slings his arm around his father's shoulders. At twenty-three, he is now a full head taller than Georg. "Ready?" he asks.

Georg surprises us all by nodding. "Oh, why not?"

Something in the way he says it must fire up even Rosmarie, because there's no whining or crying as we file out the door onto the drive. Two polished black Austro-Daimlers sit waiting for us in the bright sun. They are luxuries we could never afford to buy now, so Georg keeps them well maintained. Today, with the weather so beautiful, Hans has lowered the tops. The children split themselves into groups and pile inside, shouting that the leather is too hot.

"I'll see you there," Lotte says. Her chauffeur is waiting patiently beside her open door. "You are going to be brilliant."

The moment she says this, a rush of fear tenses my stomach. It's just a five-minute drive into Salzburg.

"Just remember the high C," Agathe tells Mitzi as we head toward the city.

"And don't take any big breaths," Hedwig reminds Werner. "You'll tighten your shoulders."

"Why are we going with an open top?" Johanna complains. "Look at my hair."

"Your hair is fine," I say quickly. "Everyone, whatever happens, we're not here to win. We're here because we wish to share our gifts with the world. There is no family in Austria like ours, and God has seen to it that we each have a part to play, from soprano"—I look at Rosmarie and smile—"to tenor."

Werner beams, and although he's nineteen, I can still see nervous excitement on his face. "I think we should call ourselves the Trapp Family Choir. It has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

So that's the name Father Wasner tells the director of festival when we enter the tent and are asked what we're called.

"And who might you be?" the man asks, tugging his mustache.

"Father Wasner is our conductor," I tell him.

The director scowls. "Can't say we've ever had a choir with a conductor," he says. Then he peers at me intently. "Are you professionals?"

Georg sputters at the idea. "Certainly not. We sing in our music room."

"Fine." The director hands each of us red and white pins for our shirts to show that we're entrants. "You'll be on at one. We have three acts to get to before yours." He grabs a clipboard and hurries from the tent. "Take a seat and wait."

It's the longest wait of my existence. We entertain ourselves with several games of charades until the barker finally calls for the Trapp Family Choir.

"Line up!" I cry. "Rupert, what are you doing with those cards? Rosmarie, get your thumb out of your mouth. Wasner! Where is Father Wasner?"

"Here!" He comes around the corner of the tent, music in hand. "Everyone ready?"

Georg looks as if he might be having trouble breathing, and as we leave the tent I squeeze his hand. "It's going to be great."

The audience is bigger now than they have been for the previous acts. Perhaps it's the novelty of seeing a Baron's family taking the stage or maybe it's the time of day, but people fill the wooden chairs practically as far as the eye can see. As we take our positions I spot Lotte near the front, along with several of our neighbors. But as soon as we begin to sing, the entire audience fades from view. There could be three hundred people watching us or three. I'm so focused on the music that it no longer matters.

I can see from Father Wasner's face that we're hitting every note. All of us—even tiny Lorli. But when our song is finished, my heart begins beating so wildly in my chest that I can't hear anything else. For several terrible seconds I think the crowd is mute with disappointment. Then suddenly the entire audience is on its feet, giving us a standing ovation. The children look at one another in disbelief.

"Let's go," I say quickly. "Let's go." Our act is over and the judges are motioning us off the stage. We hurry away to shouts from the crowd.

"That was amazing!" someone says.

"Yes. Just unbelievable!"

"Frau von Trapp." A wiry man with a mustache and a gray fedora pushes through the crowd. "Frau von Trapp!" He reaches out and shakes my hand. "Franz Ackermann." He hands me a small paper card. "Next Saturday," he says. "At the station."

I glance at Georg. "What station?" Where does this man think we'll be going?

Ackermann laughs, as if I'm the first person to have ever asked him this. "The radio station on the M?nchsberg. See you at four o'clock." He winks and disappears into the crowd.

Georg stares at me, agape. "He didn't even ask!"

I raise my brows. "Guess that means that not many people turn him down."

But I can't think about a radio station right now. The judges have taken the stage and the crowd of several hundred people has gone silent. A man and a woman dressed in similar black suits are about to announce the prizes. Rosmarie slips her hand into mine and I can feel the nervous sweat between her fingers.

"And the third prize in the Salzburg Festival's Singers' Competition goes to…"

The blood is rushing so fast in my ears that I can't hear who they announce. I just know it isn't us, because a couple who did yodeling is smiling and moving toward the stage. My heart isn't racing nearly so fast when they announce the second prize, which goes to a man and his daughter who performed "Land der Berge, Land am Strome." And I'm completely calm as they prepare to announce first place because it certainly won't be us.

"And the first prize in this year's Singers' Competition goes to…the Trapp Family Choir!"

Suddenly, everyone is looking in our direction.

"It's us!" Johanna shouts, taking Agathe by the hand. "It's us!"

Georg is beaming so widely that tears are forming in his eyes. And this makes me happier than anything.

I don't even remember what we do onstage. Is there an acceptance speech? If so, who gives it? Because I know it isn't me. Instead, I am rooted to the center of the stage, looking out at the sea of smiling faces, in shock. And for the first time, I know what it is to feel wanted by so many.

At home, instead of basking in the moment of our very first singing triumph as a family, I immediately begin planning the next. "Saturday at four," I remind everyone gathered around the fireside with their mugs of cinnamon and cider.

"Perhaps we should talk about this," Georg says. The room is heavy with the sweet, pungent scent of his pipe, and from the open windows you can smell the seasons changing, the warm summer grass giving way to the fresh scents of fall.

"A radio invitation?" I laugh. "You said it yourself. No one turns that down! Rupert, what about school?" I worry.

"If the trains are running on time I can be here by noon."

I look around the library. "Everyone else?"

Rosmarie is picking at a loose thread in the carpet, but the others are all wide-eyed with wonder at their own accomplishment and obviously excited to repeat the experience.

"Then it's decided," I say.

Rosmarie looks up and her face is pale. In enough time, I reassure myself, she'll love the stage. I pick up the phone to confirm the booking.

And just like that, our entire lives change.

—

Although Georg has given more than a dozen radio interviews to promote his book, the rest of us have never been to a radio station, and the twenty-minute drive is full of excitement. I lean my head back in the sunshine and inhale. Autumn leaves and fresh pine.

"So who do you think will hear us?" Johanna asks. Since there's no need to wear matching dirndls or starched blouses, she's dressed in a gray skirt and embroidered top.

"Who knows?" I say eagerly, letting her mind wander. "The whole of Austria listens to this station."

"Germany, too," Werner puts in.

My stomach clenches. Then I remember the feeling I had when everyone rose to their feet at the festival and how our awful neighbors had watched as men like Franz Ackermann had surrounded us afterward, offering things like free tickets to Rome to sing at the Teatro dell'Opera. We're on the brink of something, I realize. I'm not sure what, but our trip up to the M?nchsberg radio station gives me the same feeling I used to have while standing on the edge of the diving board, waiting to jump.

The parking lot is filled when we arrive, and for a moment I wonder if they've all come for us. Then I realize with embarrassment that other singers are obviously recording here as well. We hurry out of the cars, and a receptionist leads us to a waiting room with long green couches and framed photos of all the famous singers who've come here before us.

"There's Lotte Lehmann!" Johanna exclaims.

It's true. She's on the wall, smiling next to a large microphone suspended from the ceiling. "Is that what we're going to do?" I ask.

"Probably, because there are so many of you," Georg says. "If it was just one or two, you'd be in the booth."

I try to steady my breathing. We'll be singing Bach's "Hymn of Thanksgiving," and it's no different from all the other times we've performed it. But as I look around, I realize someone is missing. Dear God. "Where is Rosmarie?" I'm aware of my voice sounding more like a screech than a gasp, and before anyone can answer I'm out the door and halfway down the drive. Even from across the parking lot I can hear the sobbing.

"What are you doing here?" I shriek.

She's hunched down on the floor of the car, her face red and puffy from crying. "Please, I don't want to sing," she begs. "Don't make me sing."

"It's the same as what we did at the contest," I say.

"And I hated it!" she cries.

I hear heavy footsteps behind me and put my hands on my hips. "Get out!"

"Maria, you don't really need her, do you?" Georg asks. "She isn't first soprano."

I wheel around to face him. "She's part of this family, isn't she?" I demand. This delay might make us miss our slot!

"But she's six years old."

I open the door and pull her out. "What is wrong with you?"

She's crying so hard she's hiccupping now.

"We can't stand here all day," I warn. "So make your choice." I glare at her, silently promising future retribution should this continue, then I walk away. A few seconds later, there are hurried footsteps behind me.

"Wait! I'll come!"

I turn and smile, wiping the tears from her face. "Thank you." I stroke her hair. But she's shaking, and I can't understand it. "You're such a beautiful singer, Ros. You'll get used to this—and there's no crowd watching us today." I kiss the top of her head.

Georg holds his pipe and considers me for a moment, as if he's really seeing me for the first time. But I don't care. We're a family and we do this together.

Inside the radio station, Rosmarie runs to Agathe, who enfolds her in her arms like a tiny, wounded bird.

"She doesn't want to sing?" Father Wasner asks as I sit next to him.

"She'll get used to it."

But his eyes search mine. "She's quite young and we don't actually need her. She can—"

"It's fine," I repeat. Then a door opens and a toothsome young man, dressed in gray suspenders and a flat gray cap, bounces into the room.

"The von Trapps?"

We could hardly be anyone else. But we all stand and proceed to shake the disc jockey's hand. He's smaller than I imagined. And younger.

"Very nice to meet you all," he says. " Very nice. My assistant Anya will show you to the recording studio. Captain, if you will come with me."

Georg is taken to the booth, where he'll be interviewed about our singing family. The rest of us follow a red-haired woman into a small studio like the one in Lotte Lehmann's photo. She explains what a green light means and how we'll hear Georg's interview in our headphones.

"You'll start to sing as soon as you hear Karl say ‘And now the Trapp Family Choir!'?"

Father Wasner arranges us around the microphone while Anya fits headphones onto the children.

"I don't like these!" Lorli complains, and everyone laughs, because it looks as though her three-year-old head is being crushed by a pair of giant boulders.

"It's only for while we're singing. Put them on," I say tersely. I want this to go well. I need this to go well, for reasons even I'm not entirely sure of.

It takes a few minutes to become accustomed to wearing something over our ears, but we can hear the disc jockey talking to Georg.

"So, welcome back to the studio, Captain von Trapp. A few months ago you were here to give an interview for your autobiography, Memories of an Austrian U-Boat Commander. But today you've come for a very different reason. We hear that your extraordinary family sings together under the name the Trapp Family Choir. Is that right?"

"That's right."

"All eleven of you?"

He laughs. "Well, ten. I don't sing."

"And is it true that you even have a conductor?"

"Yes. A family friend by the name of Father Franz Wasner."

"Well, let's hear them, shall we? Bach's ‘Hymn of Thanksgiving' by the Trapp Family Choir!"

—

The phone doesn't stop ringing. The first calls come from Georg's friends, then Anni, then our neighbors, and finally, someone completely unexpected. When I hear Georg go quiet on the line, I know it's something unusual.

We sit in the library, sipping our mugs of tea, and wait for him to speak.

"All right then. Saturday at six." He puts down the receiver and stares blankly ahead. "That was Chancellor Kurt von Schuschnigg."

Rupert lowers his mug. Because you have to understand, the chancellor of Austria is the same as your president or England's prime minister.

"He heard us on the radio and wants the Trapp Family Choir to perform at a reception he'll be hosting in the Chancellery. He's sending three private cars from Vienna to collect us."

Who can describe the excitement over that next week? We starch our blouses and air out our best dirndls and Father Wasner comes to us each evening to rehearse.

"But what about my homework?" Rosmarie complains, obviously searching for an excuse.

"We'll worry about it next week," I tell her, gathering her socks and best patent leather shoes and shoving them into the suitcase.

"Just be thankful," Mitzi says from the doorway. "At least all you're missing is homework."

At twenty, Mitzi thinks she is old enough to be serious about a local boy named Alfons. They've been twice to the movies and on several picnics. But if her two older siblings can find time for singing, then so can she.

"Oh, I'm sure there will be plenty of eligible young men at the Chancellery," Johanna teases.

The girls giggle and I turn to reprimand them. "Have you both packed? Is everyone ready?"

We arrive at von Schuschnigg's palatial residence in a caravan of black cars, then take several moments to stand in the grand courtyard and stare. Down the street rises the impressive winter palace of the Hapsburgs. I'd learned in school about the twenty-seven hundred rooms inside. But I'd learned almost nothing about the Chancellery, with its white and gold facade silhouetted against a purple sky.

"Look at this place," Mitzi says in awe.

"Nervous?" Agathe asks.

"Are you joking?" Mitzi is the first to go inside, followed by Georg and Father Wasner.

It's as beautiful from the inside as it looks from the outside, with high arched ceilings and chandeliers. A man in a tuxedo takes our coats and I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. I look older than my twenty-nine years, in a formal dirndl and the diamond earrings that had once belonged to Georg's first wife. I hadn't wanted to wear them, but Georg insisted. "It's the chancellor, " he pointed out. But how would the children feel to see me wearing something that had once belonged to their mother? "I'll need to ask Agathe first," I said.

But Agathe just smiled. "Oh, it's only a pair of earrings. Wear them."

Now I look at myself and hardly recognize the little girl who used to hide in the attic, too afraid to go downstairs in case Uncle Franz was at home. What would that little girl think if I could tell her that someday she would be standing in the Chancellery, preparing to sing alongside her giant family?

"You look beautiful, Mama." Rosmarie comes up and takes my hand. "But everyone's leaving without us!"

In the sea of tuxedos and glittery black gowns, it's easy to spot our family. The boys may be in black suits, but the girls turn heads in their long green skirts and billowy white blouses. I tighten my grip on Rosmarie's hand and hurry after the others, catching whispers as we pass. "Are those the von Trapps?" "Those have to be the von Trapps!"

When we enter the ballroom, Rosmarie and I both gasp.

In all my life, I have never seen anything so magnificent. Garlands of red and white flowers hang from the ceiling and are draped across the windows, perfuming the air and making the ballroom feel like a summer garden, even in October. From a polished wooden stage, the Viennese Philharmonic Orchestra is playing "An der sch?nen blauen Donau," the most joyful waltz ever written. And in the center of the room people are laughing and dancing, their crystal champagne glasses catching the light of a dozen chandeliers.

A man introduces himself as an aide to the chancellor, then guides us toward the stage and explains what will happen. When the orchestra begins to play "Wiener Blut," we are to take our places to the left of the stage. Once the orchestra makes its exit, the stage is ours. Father Wasner will stand on the same wooden podium currently being used by the conductor of the Philharmonic. Then, once we're ready, we may begin.

"I've never met anyone more passionate about music than the chancellor," the aide says. He's a cheerful-looking man, with a thin mustache and round glasses. His resemblance to the chancellor is so striking that I wonder if they're related. "When he heard your family on the radio," he continues, "he didn't stop talking about it for days." His eyes come to rest on Father Wasner and he grins. "And you must be the conductor."

Father Wasner smiles. His blond hair is slicked back and his eyes seem brighter in the candlelight. "We are humbled by your invitation."

"Oh, no." The aide is shaking his head. "The honor is ours. We've all heard about your discovery of new music in your university's archives. And the chancellor has told all of his guests about the Trapp Family Choir. Everyone is looking forward to this."

Perhaps this is the reason that our performance feels different from any we've ever given before. We've never had such an expectant crowd waiting to hear us. The entire audience falls silent. While the orchestra had been playing, people had been drinking and chatting merrily. Even at the festival people had come and gone, tending to crying infants or simply just moving on. But now everyone in the room is turned toward us, and for the next forty minutes we are given their undivided attention. When we finish, the entire room erupts into thunderous applause. Even the members of the Philharmonic Orchestra are clapping.

"Stop grabbing my skirt!" I whisper to Rosmarie.

"But I feel like I'm going to faint."

"Then wait until we're off this stage," I tell her, irritated by her theatrics.

The clapping seems to go on forever, and the feeling is like floating. The chancellor's wife appears and asks if we would like to meet a few people. I look down at Rosmarie.

"Go take Lorli to the gardens," I suggest.

The chancellor, meanwhile, whisks Georg and Father Wasner away to another corner of the room.

By ten o'clock I want to collapse. I've met politicians, musicians, bankers, and all of their bejeweled wives who want to know if it's true that I was going to become a nun eight years ago. I've answered so many questions that my mind is numb. And I've completely lost track of the children….

I see Rosmarie and Lorli chasing each other in the gardens. And Mitzi is sitting with three girls her own age, the four of them laughing and glancing across the room at a group of teenage boys. Then I spot Johanna, alone with a young man near the table for desserts. I watch for several moments as their heads come close together and they laugh. Then I'm crossing the room to see what this is about. At fifteen, I would have gone red with embarrassment if I'd been caught alone with a boy. But Johanna just smiles.

"Mother, I would like you to meet Ernst Winter. His father is Karl Winter, the vice mayor of Vienna."

Ernst flashes me a wide smile, and immediately I'm suspicious. He's dressed in an expensive suit, with polished loafers and a fancy watch. His blue eyes look steady enough, but I don't like how his shoulder brushes against Johanna's. Or the easy way he's been laughing with her. "Your family has unbelievable talent, Frau von Trapp. It was the highlight of the evening, listening to you."

I smile briefly. "Thank you, Ernst. Johanna," I add sternly, "I think it's time."

"Just a few more minutes?" she asks, glancing at the vice mayor's son. "He's telling me about the history of the piece we just performed. Did you know that Bach would sign all of his music ‘I.N.J.'? It's Latin for—"

"In Nomine Jesu," I reply.

"Yes." Johanna nods eagerly. "Bach was deeply pious. Like you."

I stare at the young man next to Johanna. "Five more minutes. But that is it."

When I turn to leave them, the chancellor is standing behind me with Father Wasner and Georg. All three of them are smiling.

"What?" I ask, immediately suspicious, and the chancellor laughs.

"Frau von Trapp, I believe I have convinced both your husband and your conductor that it would be a crime to hide away a family like yours. The entire world should know of your talents."

I glance at Georg.

"The chancellor believes we should go on tour," he says, smiling as if he can't believe it himself.

"But where would we go? How would we—"

"Oh, just leave that up to me." The chancellor adjusts the round glasses on his nose and smiles.

—

We don't leave the Chancellery until eleven o'clock, but only Lorli falls asleep in the car. Everyone else is too full of stories about the night. When we've returned to the villa the next day, our phone won't stop ringing. Rupert is forced to take up residence in the library, jotting down every invitation that comes in. An offer to perform in Munich. Free train tickets to Paris. A chance to perform at the great Staatsoper Berlin. We all listen and clap with each offer that comes in, laughing as we imagine ourselves boarding a train to perform at the Vienna State Opera.

"It all seems a little much," Georg worries, perched on the edge of the couch.

"But it's a great opportunity to see the rest of Europe," Werner says.

"And we would all be together," Agathe points out.

"Oh, please can we do them all," Mitzi begs. "Please." After being bedridden for much of her childhood, I can sense her longing to go out and explore.

"What do you think, Ros?" Georg asks tenderly.

Our daughter climbs into his lap, then glances at me. "Whatever everyone else wants," she says.

"No, no. What do you want?" he repeats, tapping her little nose.

"I want to be with you," she whispers, snuggling into his chest.

"And Lorli," Georg asks, ever the diplomat. "What would my smallest princess like?"

"Strudel," she announces, and everyone laughs.

"I think we should do it," Rupert says, surprising everyone.

Georg frowns. "What about your studies?"

"We could conduct the tours during my school breaks. Like Werner said, it would be a great way to see the world. And he can go back to farming when we return."

Georg strikes a match and lights the bowl of his pipe, and for a moment his face is obscured by wisps of smoke. He sits back and thinks while the scent of his tobacco fills the library. When his silence continues, Rupert persists.

"So is it settled then? Shall we accept the offers?" he asks.

Georg sighs. "Why don't we start off with just one or two."