Chapter Twenty-one Maria

Chapter Twenty-One

Maria

Salzburg, Austria

1938

It begins with the Strassers. I open the door the next morning and the entire family is arranged on our porch, as still as actors waiting for the curtain to be drawn. There are Mr. and Mrs. Strasser in the back with big smiles, then their three boys, as tall and confident as their father. I feign surprise, then dutifully usher the five of them inside.

"Look, Georg, it's the Strassers," I say, and we all pretend to be surprised by the wonderful timing of their visit. Agathe brings coffee and cake into the library, and Martina and Johanna join us to exchange small talk with the boys. The children are roughly the same age, all in their late teens, and there should be no shortage of topics to converse about. But the Nazi flags flapping from each of the Strassers' windows down the street means that few subjects are safe.

While Karl Strasser is talking about the summer weather, I catch Leopold, his eldest, trying to impress Johanna. She laughs politely at his jokes, but I know she's been exchanging letters with that boy from Vienna, the son of the former vice mayor, and isn't interested.

"I'm thinking of joining the Party," Leopold says, when none of his jokes seem to impress.

The entire library goes silent.

"It may seem like an opportunity for advancement," Georg says, and he of all people should know, "but what happens when they send all you boys to war?"

Leopold tenses. "If anyone is foolish enough to start a war with us," he says heatedly, "then it will be over in a few months."

His brothers nod in agreement, and I turn to their mother, Christina.

"A war is coming," I say gravely, even though outside the birds are chirping and the jasmine bush smells like endless summer. "And Germany will be the one to start it. You don't want to lose your sons."

Christina lowers the coffee to her lap. She has never dressed in the traditional white blouse and dirndl that most women wear in Salzburg. She prefers whatever is fashionable in Paris. Today, it's a full-skirted redingote in silk jacquard. The pale pink brings out the color in her cheeks, which rises as she answers. "No war is going to take my sons." She laughs dismissively at the thought. "Just look at them."

They are all strapping boys, broad-shouldered with ruddy good looks.

But Georg's voice is serious when he says, "War doesn't care how tough you're built. I've seen boys cut down in the prime of their youth. This isn't the time to be joining any party."

"Says the man who will command the Kriegsmarine!" Karl claps Georg on the back good-naturedly and laughs. "We've all heard the good news!"

Georg is sitting next to me and I feel his muscles tense, and I don't have to meet his eyes to know what he's thinking. Hans can no longer be trusted.

"Well," Georg begins, "you know that I'm retired—"

Karl stares in disbelief. "You can't be thinking of turning it down?"

"Actually, yes."

"But…it's the greatest honor they could possibly bestow." Karl turns for confirmation from his wife, who nods fervently. "A new fleet…" He can't get over it. "And aren't you still taking in boarders? There'd be no need for stuff like that anymore."

"We haven't had boarders in some time," I say defensively.

"Very well, but you would never have to fear going back to that."

"I'm afraid the matter is settled," Georg says simply.

When the Strassers are finished with their interrogation, the Hofmanns arrive, and by the end of the week we've had seven different families pay us a visit. This isn't the calm the doctor was hoping for, and Father Wasner suggests I focus on finding new pieces for our concerts rather than entertaining our nosy neighbors.

"We can't leave them on our front porch!" I exclaim.

From his position behind the podium, Father Wasner gives a little shrug as if to say why not? and I have never felt a greater fondness for him in my life.

To distract from our mounting worries, we begin practicing twice a day. Only Rosmarie protests. The rest of us are more than happy to occupy ourselves with Jodler and Mozart. Georg, of course, remains in the library, grinding his teeth against his pipe as he reads the papers. We all know not to disturb him at this time. So it can't be good news when he appears in the doorway of the music room. He waits for two movements from Sonata in C Major to be finished, then clears his throat.

"I've just had a phone call."

Father Wasner lowers his baton and I place a protective hand across my stomach. Please don't let it be bad news, I think. Please.

"We've had an invitation to sing at a birthday party."

We all look at one another. Then Werner laughs. "Well, what's wrong with that?"

"Maybe it's for one of the Strassers," Agathe jokes.

"Or the Hofmanns." Rupert rolls his eyes.

"No," Georg says. "It's for the Führer."

I take several steps back and Father Wasner lowers himself into a chair, burying his head in his hands. He's been a vocal critic of the Nazi Party in his university's paper. Turning down the Führer will be the end of his career.

"I don't understand," I begin. "How does he know—"

"He heard you on the radio. His personal secretary was on the phone."

I imagine what the Strassers would say about this. How there could be no greater honor. How everything we'd touch after this would turn to gold. But all I can think is that our success has just been our undoing.

"What did the secretary say?" Father Wasner asks. The color has completely drained from his face.

"That we represent what's best about Ostmark." This is Austria's new name. "And that our presence would show the world how Ostmark and Germany have united." Georg clenches his jaw. "I cut her off before she could continue."

"Good!" There are flutters in my stomach. Barbara is as angry as I am. Or maybe that's just my own rage. "And what did you say?"

"That we are traveling to Italy and will not be available. She asked that we reconsider our trip." He leans against the doorframe, as if for support. "I said no."

Rupert closes his book. "How long do you think we have?"

Georg takes a staggered breath. "Twenty-four hours," he says quietly. "Maybe less."

Hans has today off. We will have to give him a distant errand tomorrow.

"I want to be clear on what's about to happen," Georg says. "If I don't return the Führer's call tomorrow to say that we've changed our minds, we will need to leave Austria at once."

Rosmarie's voice is shaking. "For good?"

Georg crosses the room and takes a seat, then calls her over. She climbs onto his lap, burying her head in his neck. "Yes." He tucks her hair behind her ears and she begins to sob into his chest. "We'd have only tonight to pack," he tells the rest of us. "And if Father Wasner wants to join us, he would need permission from the archbishop. Understand that this would mean leaving everything. Our city, our friends, this house. If this is what we agree to do, I'll place a call tomorrow to that American manager who asked you to tour overseas. We would need train tickets leaving for Italy no later than tomorrow evening."

It's such a wrenching decision.

"Is there anyone who thinks we should stay?" Georg asks.

Rosmarie is still weeping, but no one speaks. Not even Father Wasner, who will certainly lose his position at the university if he remains. I think of Lorli upstairs, napping while her entire future is being decided. She will never know another Austrian Christmas or hike the Untersberg in summer. Georg passes Rosmarie to Agathe, then comes over to me and kisses my forehead. "It's not the childhood we planned for little Barbara, is it?"

"No." I can't stop the tears. "But God will see we've done what's right and He'll provide."

—

First thing in the morning, Georg goes to Hans and puts his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "We'd like you to take the day off," he says.

There's no one but us in the kitchen, but Hans still looks around. "Am I being dismissed?"

"No. Nothing like that," Georg says quietly, but the sadness in his voice gives us away. "A war is coming, Hans. Maybe not tomorrow, but I want you to trust me on this. And you need to decide if a party that sends its enemies to death camps is really worth dying for."

The two men watch each other sadly, then Hans turns on his heel and walks away.

The rest of the morning is a blur. Without Hans in the house, we are free to pack. The children are responsible for their own two suitcases, filled with whatever they want to take. The rest of the cases are to be filled with our instruments—a spinet, a virginal, four six-stringed gambas, eight recorders, and my beloved guitar. There is a case for our music books and three others for our costumes. And, of course, a small case filled with baby clothes and toys for little Barbara.

Father Wasner leaves early that morning to speak with the archbishop, and when he returns, I can't tell from his face whether his request has been granted or not. He collapses into a chair in our music room and silently watches as Rupert and Werner shove books of music into a bag.

"Well?" I exclaim, unable to contain myself. Wasner is part of our family now.

"He said that if I didn't go, I would be acting against the will of God to save my own life. They are coming for me," he whispers. His face, which has always looked so young, suddenly seems haggard. "Has Georg booked the train?"

"Tonight at five," I tell him.

He will need to pack at once. He crosses the room but pauses at the door. "I am going to miss this place."

There is no time to say farewell. No lingering in each of our children's rooms or walking in our garden for one last look. At any moment the doorbell might ring and it will all be over.

Georg spends the day on the phone, first booking the tickets, then calling Otto Wagner in New York to see if the offer of coming to America is still good. We will have to leave Austria regardless, and I linger in the doorway to hear what the American says. His voice bleeds through the receiver, loud and strong.

"Yes, but the boat will leave from London. Can you get to England?"

"Of course," Georg assures him. "We will be there in two weeks."

"You'll be on a six-month visa," the man says in German, and Georg assures him that this is fine as well, although I'm certain he doesn't know what a visa is any more than I do. "I'll make your reservations at Hotel Wellington on Seventh Avenue and Fifty-Fifth."

" Dankesch?n. " Georg begins writing furiously.

"It's all set then. We'll see you in three weeks."

When the call is finished, Georg slowly replaces the receiver. "We have to get to England."

I look down at Barbara, who is due in five months, and a familiar panic begins to settle over me. "What about the baby?" I ask.

"Our baby is simply going on an adventure," Georg says lovingly.

"And the money?"

He actually smiles. "How many times have I complained about my pension?"

I gasp. The Italian government has always refused to let his pension be paid outside of Italy.

"We can collect it in Tyrol and use it to make our bookings," he says.

It's as if God knew all along that we'd need it for this moment. I look outside at the perfect summer sky arching over the meadows and feel my throat beginning to close. No more summer picnics on the grass, no more concerts under the evergreens. When my eyes begin to mist, Georg comes and takes me in his arms.

"And what will happen in London?" I ask.

"We'll board the American Farmer. From there, it will be an eleven-day voyage to New York."

I don't ask "What then?" because how do any of us know? If our concerts go well, we may be able to support ourselves in this new country. If not, only God knows where we will turn….

—

There can be no tears as we leave the villa. No indication at all that we might not be coming back. We stand on the drive in our billowing sleeves and embroidered bodices, the boys wearing short black Tyrolean coats. Three taxis roll over the gravel and we try to look cheerful as we wedge our cases into their trunks. When one of the drivers asks about our trip, only Martina is strong enough to respond.

"Oh, just a few weeks in Tyrol. We all love to hike."

It's a twenty-minute wait for Father Wasner, who arrives with red cheeks and only two cases. His entire life in a pair of gray bags half the size of Lorli.

"Ready?" the driver chirps as Wasner squeezes himself between Martina and Georg.

No one has the heart to answer. Finally, the man swivels in his seat and Georg gives a silent nod. No family has ever looked more miserable going on vacation.

We roll away from the Villa Trapp and each of us turns to see the house one last time, the buttercup-yellow walls as bright and fresh in the afternoon sun as the day I first saw them twelve years ago. Tomorrow, Georg's sister will come from Korneuburg to supervise as the house is boarded up.

A deep sense of foreboding clenches my stomach, and I can't tell if it's real or just the pregnancy. I turn to Georg and drop my voice to a whisper. "You don't think that Hans—"

He shakes his head swiftly. "I don't know. Let's just get on that train as fast as possible and be gone."

But it's not that simple. At the station, there are fifty-eight bags to unload, and while attendants heave the cases onto the train one by one, familiar faces begin crowding around us.

"Maria!" Ingrid Hofmann shouts from across the station, and the children instinctively close in around me as she approaches. She's fashionably dressed, as usual, in a pretty skirt suit with squared shoulders and a narrow waist. Her blond hair has been swept up into a large bouffant. "Well, look at this!" She sweeps her gaze over our sea of bags. "I had no idea you were going on a trip."

Martina smiles tightly. "A hiking trip."

"And you?" I ask pointedly.

Her eyes linger on our music cases. "Stefan's brother has just come back from Germany. He's been offered the position of a Reichsinspekteur."

I try not to look as revolted as I feel.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm sure if Georg doesn't wish to return to the navy, they'll find something else for him. He served with such distinction. They won't care that your family has fallen on hard times." She glances down at our cases, since hiking in Tyrol is no one's idea of a lavish vacation. Then Father Wasner's voice interrupts us.

"Maria, the bags are loaded!" he shouts.

I smile. "Enjoy your summer, Ingrid."

How long does it take for a train to roll out? We find our seats and I can see Ingrid standing on the platform with Stefan and his brother, the new national inspector. They're all watching the train, us in particular. Georg waves, trying to look neighborly. Then the whistle blows and I catch myself blinking back tears of relief.

"Three hours," Rupert whispers.

I nod, understanding. Lorli leans her head into my chest and I must doze off, because the next moment Georg is shaking my shoulder.

"We're across!" he's saying.

I bolt upright. "What?"

"We're in Italy."

I look out the window for confirmation. A sign in Italian points the way to a ristorante and my heart flutters in my chest. But our freedom doesn't feel real until the last bag is unloaded on the platform in Tyrol. We're so concerned that all fifty-eight bags make it out of the train that none of us realize what's happening around us. Finally, an old man approaches me.

"Are any of you searching for accommodation?"

With so much noise in the station I'm not sure I've heard him right. Plus, the smell of the steam and hot oil is making me sick. I stare at him for a moment. Even Georg, the only one of us who speaks Italian, isn't sure how to respond.

"Well, hasn't anyone told you what's happened?" the man asks. We all shake our heads and he raises his walking stick. "You're the last train out!"

I don't understand what this means.

"It's on the radio," the man shouts over the sound of the whistle. "Hitler has shut the borders. Yours was the last train out."