Chapter Twenty-two Fran

Chapter Twenty-Two

Fran

Manhattan, New York

1959

"Was he right?" Fran exclaims, incredulous. " Was it the last train out of Austria?"

From their seats on a bench outside of Saint Patrick's Cathedral, Maria and Lorli nod in unison.

"If we'd waited just one more day to leave, none of us would be here," Maria says, folding her hands in her lap.

Churchgoers are still pouring out from the ten o'clock service. Fran waits for them to leave before asking, "Would they have imprisoned your entire family?"

"Oh, yes, and sent us to one of the camps. After we left, the priests who'd spoken out alongside Father Wasner were taken to Auschwitz." Maria drops her voice. "Only one of them survived."

It's so awful that Fran has to close her eyes. And now she understands the different ending for the play. It's only been fourteen years since Hitler took his own life in Berlin, and with flowers still fresh on the graves of men killed in action, no theatergoer in New York is prepared to hear the Führer's name mentioned onstage.

In some ways, what Rodgers and Hammerstein have done is incredible, taking this story of good escaping from evil and making it palatable for a country still traumatized by four years of war. But one look at Maria tells Fran that it isn't palatable for everyone. And what of their lives after they arrived in America? It's been more than twenty years since the American Farmer sailed into New York's harbor.

Fran asks the women if they remember their first time in America, and both of them laugh.

"Our taxis pulled up to the Hotel Wellington and we couldn't even thank our driver. Only Rupert knew enough English to get by," Lorli says.

"What about the manager who sent you the tickets?" Fran asks.

"Oh, without him we would have been utterly lost," Maria says. "He showed us how to open a bank account with the four dollars we had left from our time on the ship. And after we'd earned a little money from our first few concerts, he helped us rent a house in Pennsylvania."

Maria recalls her fear of riding an escalator for the first time, and Lorli remembers her first taste of Coca-Cola. Father Wasner was invited to say a daily Mass in Saint Patrick's Cathedral, and every morning the entire family would make their way to Fifth Avenue to hear him preach.

"It was so exciting at first," Lorli says, "like a family vacation." But her lips turn downward, and whatever happened next is obviously painful. "But in reality, all of us were refugees, and we were here to sing." Fran notices that Maria has chosen to remain silent. "Mother decided that Rosmarie and I were too young to go on tour, so we were boarded at Ravenhill Academy in Philadelphia."

Fran tries to imagine arriving penniless in a new country, then being left at a school where no one speaks your language.

"We weren't able to see them for months," Maria admits. "It was very traumatic. I wish—" Her gray eyes brim with tears and Lorli reaches across and pats her mother's knee.

"You didn't know."

But Maria shakes her head, using her sleeve to dab at her eyes. "The touring wasn't easy," she explains. Not that anyone realized this at first. In the beginning, the bus that Otto Wagner had procured for them rolled through America's rural towns and farmlands and the family thought they had arrived in paradise. At harvest time, the scent of apples filled their bus. The driver would pull over at one of a dozen orchards found along the side of the road and the family would stretch or take a little walk. And wherever they sang, the family met with nothing but success.

Otto Wagner was clever and had booked them in towns filled with German immigrants. When the von Trapps would arrive, the audience experienced nostalgia for a land many of them had never even seen, listening to music from a world only their parents or grandparents had known. Following Otto Wagner's advice, Maria would bring out her guitar and the family would perform folk songs from the Alps. Then winter came and many of the country lanes grew impassable. Concerts had to be rescheduled for larger cities, where the bus could make its way through streets that had been plowed free of snow and ice. Except that audiences in larger cities weren't as enthusiastic about a family choir singing about the Austrian Alps. Finding lodging became a nightly ordeal, and each day that passed brought Maria closer to the birth of her third child. What if something happened to the baby while they were on the road? What if all the stress of these cold nights and long bus rides prompted her to deliver early?

But the baby was fine, and by the time the von Trapps returned for their daughters at Ravenhill Academy, Lorli and Rosmarie had a new sibling. Only it wasn't the little girl they'd all been waiting for.

"Can you imagine?" Maria asks. "We had everything ready. The tiny lace dresses the other children had worn, even a name. But it was a boy!"

"Johannes," Fran remembers. The last and youngest von Trapp child.

"It should have been a wonderful Christmas," Maria says. "A new baby, a new country…We'd even learned all the American tricks."

Fran laughs at the thought of Americans needing secret methods for survival. "Tricks?"

"Oh, yes. Like how Americans go to shoemakers to iron their hats."

"And how drugstores sell food—even ice cream!" Lorli adds.

"We'd all learned some basic English by then. We might not have been thriving, but we were living," Maria gushes. "Then our tourist visas expired." Her lips turn down. "And America refused to renew them."

So they packed up their fifty-eight suitcases and crossed the ocean again, this time traveling to the only remaining countries willing to give them a contract to sing. They were all in Scandinavia.

"We thought this might have to be our life, touring from country to country. Then Hitler invaded Poland and we realized we would never be safe in Europe. For you, the war didn't start until 1941. For us, it began in 1939."

So Otto Wagner did one last favor for them. Their family wasn't bringing in enough money for him to continue as their manager, but he arranged for a second visa and procured them tickets on the SS Bergensfjord, headed from Norway to New York.

"It was such a kind thing for him to do." Lorli has the same open expression and wide gray eyes as her mother. "At Ellis Island the immigration officer asked my mother how long we planned to stay, and my mother exclaimed that she hoped we'd be staying forever."

Fran gives a little gasp. Even she knows what a mistake that answer must have been.

"We were put in detention straightaway." Lorli draws a staggered breath. "It was a week before we were told what would happen to us."

Fran remembers this from Maria's book. But Maria hadn't made it clear how they were released from detention.

"Otto called a few people he knew at the embassy. Eventually Frances Perkins, the secretary of labor, heard about our situation. When they released us, the press was waiting outside." Maria perks up at the memory. "They wanted our pictures!"

Lorli looks less cheerful. "That's when the real work began," she says. "Touring, publicity, marketing."

"But what did you do for a manager?" Fran asks.

Lorli glances at her mother and both women smile. "Freddy Schang," Lorli says.

"Frederick Schang was the president of Columbia Artists Management," Maria explains. "When Otto said he wasn't interested in being our manager, we took it as a sign from God."

Lorli laughs. "Yes, a sign we should reach even higher. At first, Freddy had no interest in being our manager either," she confides.

"You remember that?" Maria exclaims, and Lorli gives her mother a long look. "But you were only eight," Maria protests.

"He told us he didn't think he could manage a little choir dressed like nuns." Lorli turns to Fran. "So my mother demanded to know what was wrong with that."

Fran is holding back her laughter. The president of Columbia Artists Management! "And what did he say?"

"That American audiences enjoy looking as much as listening, and unless we could miraculously find a little sex appeal, we could forget about ever making it in New York. My mother marched out of that office angrier than I'd ever seen her, then went straight to Macy's."

Fran is confused. "The department store?"

Lorli confirms this with a nod. "Her English wasn't great, but she asked the first salesman she came across where she could find some sex appeal."

Fran roars with laughter, and several women leaving the cathedral begin to stare. "So did he find it for you?"

Maria laughs. "No! He fled and never came back. But we returned to Freddy's office on West Fifty-Seventh. And even though everyone wanted me to leave well enough alone, I told him in no uncertain terms that he'd made a mistake."

"She said if he'd agree to be our manager, we would have more sex appeal than all of his other clients combined," Lorli explains.

Fran is practically crying.

"Eventually, I think Freddy took pity on us," Lorli guesses.

"Did having him as your manager change anything?" Fran asks.

"Oh, everything, " Lorli admits. "He taught us about appealing to different audiences, and publicity, and marketing."

"We shortened our skirts," Maria adds.

"Only a few inches."

"And started wearing lipstick. It worked," Lorli says.

Then a few years later we were successful enough to buy the lodge in Vermont. We bought it for the land. The actual building was a run-down shack. The children built it into what's there today with their own hands."

It's an unbelievable story, Fran realizes, even more extraordinary than what's written in the play.

Maria rises, brushing off her dirndl, and it's clear that the reminiscing has come to an end. When she returns to the cathedral to use the restroom, Fran brings up the subject of the premiere.

"I will go if she asks, but I doubt any of my siblings will come. I know you're worried about what she might say to the press," Lorli replies.

Fran flushes, embarrassed by how transparent her motives must be.

"If I'm honest, I have no idea what she might say. But you listened," Lorli points out. "That's really what she wanted. Mr. Hammerstein will have to do the rest himself."

"I'll be completely honest, Lorli. It's unlikely he'll change the play," Fran warns, hating that her boss has put her in this position. When she returns to the office on Monday she's going to let Hammerstein know exactly how she feels about all of this. He needs to be the one to tell Maria that a story is more appealing when a character undergoes a major transformation. And let him be the one to explain that Georg was chosen to be this character—the one to hear the sound of music and see the light.

When Maria returns, Fran asks when she and Lorli intend to leave.

"Tomorrow morning," Maria says firmly. "And though I've enjoyed chatting with you tremendously, I am not going to lie. I am disappointed to have come all this way and been denied an audience with Mr. Hammerstein."

"My notes will be ready for him on Monday," Fran assures her. She will have to type them up over the weekend. "I have no doubt in my mind that he will eventually get in touch."

Maria arches her heavy brows. " Eventually? The play debuts six weeks from today. Isn't that right?"

"Yes." Fran swallows. "November sixteenth."

"Well, that's not a great deal of time to make corrections."

—

On Monday morning, Fran is so focused on her confrontation with Hammerstein that she forgets she'll also be seeing Jack. The realization hits her in the elevator just as the operator chirps, "I believe this is your stop." She stands still for a moment, thinking about what's to come, until the operator prompts, "Miss Connelly?"

"Oh. Right." Slowly, Fran makes her way down the hall, her heart beginning to race as she turns the brass handle to Hammerstein's office. She can't see any movement through the frosted glass, but that doesn't mean the place is empty. Today, however, she's the first one in.

She glances around her desk for instructions since Hammerstein is often in the office over the weekend, but can't find a single note from him. No yellow scraps of paper folded neatly at the corner of her desk, not even a hastily jotted line about continuing with the press releases. He's working on something else, Fran thinks. He must be.

She pulls out the notes on her interview with Maria and takes them into Hammerstein's office. As usual, his desk is cluttered with papers and stacks of dog-eared books. Because there's no chance he'll find the notes on his desk, she leaves them in the center of his chair, then considers penning a letter to him about Maria. She's not sure what more she can add to the notes that would convince him to speak to Maria himself, but she's drafting the letter in her mind when the phone shatters her concentration. She's partway through her usual greeting when a voice screams on the other end, "Where are you?"

For a fraction of a second, Fran panics that she's forgotten an important meeting.

"Fran—are you there? Are you there?" Dick Halliday sounds hysterical.

When Fran realizes who it is, her voice goes flat. "I'm here." She cradles the receiver against her ear.

"Well, there's a matter of a missing guitar in the theater!"

"A missing guitar," Fran repeats, somehow doubting this is the crisis that Mr. Halliday believes it is.

"Maria's guitar." Halliday is breathing heavily. "Mary can't play Maria without that guitar and right now it's missing."

"Have you considered asking the stagehands?" Fran suggests.

"Of course I've asked the stagehands! Do you think—" There's an interruption on the line and Dick Halliday grumbles, "They found it." Then the line goes dead and Fran stares at the receiver.

"Something the matter, Miss Connelly?" Hammerstein looks tense as he walks through the door, but Fran just shakes her head and hangs up.

"Mr. Halliday couldn't find Maria's guitar. Not to worry. He handled the situation with his usual calm."

Hammerstein laughs. "Oh, yes. I can imagine it, Miss Connelly. Do you have time to tell me about Maria?"

"Of course." Fran follows him down the hall and wonders if Jack's office will remain empty today. It's been three days since they've spoken. Perhaps he's taken a vacation.

She seats herself opposite Hammerstein's desk and notices that when he lowers himself into his chair, he does so gingerly. Something's hurting him, she realizes, and immediately feels guilty. Because it isn't work that's been keeping him away. Something is wrong.

"I can't express enough gratitude for these notes," he says, tapping the pile of papers Fran worked on all night. "I'm sure there's a lot in here to digest."

"She was adamant about wanting to see you," Fran says. "But at least she hasn't acted as if she resents the fact that it's me hearing her story."

"I wanted to see her," Hammerstein admits. "But my doctors forbid it and told me to rest. How do you think she'll take all this?" He waves his hand, and Fran understands that by "all this" he means the musical.

She doesn't lie. "Not well. She's very upset about the way her husband is portrayed, and to be frank, the play isn't accurate."

He sighs. "Doesn't she like what we've done with her character?"

"No."

Hammerstein looks startled. "But she's witty and charming—"

"Yes, and that's what her children remember about their father. Not her. The German film caused a major rift in the family. Imagine seeing the roles of your parents reversed onscreen and having the entire world believe that? And now it's about to happen again, only with a bigger audience."

"It sounds as though the children might not even want tickets to the premiere."

Fran shakes her head firmly. "They don't. Well, perhaps the youngest daughter might. The rest aren't so close to her anymore."

Hammerstein pauses. "Because of the film?"

Fran considers the question. "I think it all fell apart after Georg died. Remember that Maria was an orphan," she says, trying to rationalize the fear Maria must have felt with Georg gone. "She tried to keep them all together. Even went so far as to lock Johanna in her room to keep her from getting married. But the children were desperate to lead their own lives."

Hammerstein leans forward in his chair. "How old was Johanna when that happened?"

Older than Fran. "Twenty-nine." But if Maria was panicked, she had reason to be. "She has spent most of her life saying goodbye to things. First her mother, then her father, then her country, then finally her children."

Hammerstein is quiet. "I'll read through these notes tonight," he says, and Fran feels a surge of triumph, thinking of all the times Jack had said that Hammerstein would never even look at them. "I can't change the characters in the play," he adds. Is it regret in his voice? Or just exhaustion? "But perhaps I have one more song to write. Something for all…" He looks out the window and his voice grows distant. "All the difficult goodbyes."

Fran nods and wonders what he's seeing outside. "Is everything all right, Mr. Hammerstein?"

He turns back to her and smiles sadly. "I'm afraid I won't be in tomorrow. My doctors have scheduled surgery to remove a spot of cancer in my stomach."

Fran gasps. People like Hammerstein don't get cancer. He's too young, too robust, too full of determination. "I'm so sorry," she whispers, knowing the words are inadequate even as she says them. "Is this—is it public knowledge?"

"You're the first to know here. But it's not a secret. I'll be fine," he promises. "A few weeks off and I'll be back with new material. We have a play to put on."

Fran is in a daze when she leaves his office, nearly bumping into Peter in the hall.

"Hey, everything all right?" Peter's face is tanned, as if he spent his weekend outdoors. It makes his hazel eyes look green.

"Yes—no."

Peter hesitates.

"It's not me, it's Mr. Hammerstein," she explains.

Peter waits for her to go on, but when it's obvious she isn't going to continue, he doesn't press. It's only when the two of them go to Sandy's Diner for lunch that Fran realizes she wants to talk. She takes a seat next to Peter so they won't have to shout, and the feeling of having him so close makes her feel better.

"Hammerstein is having surgery tomorrow," she confides.

Peter leans back hard against the vinyl seat, shocked. "What kind?"

"Stomach cancer."

He glances over his shoulder to be sure there's no one around from the office, and Fran quickly reassures him.

"It's not a secret. Otherwise, I would never have said anything. I'm sure he'll make an announcement today before everyone leaves." Her eyes well with tears. "Do you think—"

"He's as strong as an ox, Franny. I wouldn't worry."

But Fran blinks quickly. She can hear her mother's admonishing voice in her head: What good is powdering away your freckles if you're just going to go and cry it all off? But there's no one like Hammerstein, with his slow smile and quick mind. And certainly no other writer on Broadway with such kindness. She still has the copy of The New Yorker that he saved for her, placed prominently on her desk.

"Even if it's serious," Peter rationalizes, "he'll have the best doctors in New York. Did he say how long he'll be out?"

"A few weeks."

At this, Peter sucks in his breath. The premiere is six weeks away.

After lunch, it's clear that the rest of the office has learned about Hammerstein's diagnosis. His assistants file silently out into the hall, clearly fighting the urge to commiserate with one another. Fran notices that Jack isn't there, and later, on the walk back to her apartment, she asks Peter about him.

"He didn't tell you?" They've stopped in front of Sal's, a tiny coffee shop filled with Italian ceramics that Jack always hated. "It's so kitsch," he'd complain. "He went back to Virginia. His father thinks young senators are what the people want nowadays. He's going to help Jack run."

Fran feels a momentary flash of anger that her boyfriend didn't even have the decency to tell her this. But it's replaced by the rush of relief that she realized who he really was, just in time. Imagine if they'd continued going steady and gotten married? The idea feels absolutely ludicrous now. She glances up at Peter and sees that he's watching her.

"May I ask you a question?"

Fran smiles. "Of course."

Peter runs a nervous hand through his hair. "How upset are you about Jack?"

Heat floods into Fran's cheeks, because the truth feels embarrassing. "Not very. What about you and Eva?"

"I was devastated for a while, I have to admit. But then it started to feel less like clouds converging and more like clouds parting. Like maybe I hadn't been seeing clearly up until then." Peter takes a step toward Fran and she realizes that she's been holding her breath.

"So what do you see now?" Fran asks.

Peter takes her hand. "A funny, kind, talented, and truly beautiful woman."

Fran steps into Peter's embrace, and the feeling of her lips against his melts away every other feeling in the world. There's no more worry over Hammerstein's health or anxiety over Maria. It doesn't even matter what happens with her book. She inhales Peter's scent, a mix of soap and cedarwood, and feels her body relax into his.

"Let me walk you home," he says.

"But Eva—"

"Franny, it doesn't matter." He steadies her with his gaze, and she can sense how deeply he means this. There's always been a comfort with Peter that she'd never felt with Jack, and now she knows it's the sense of finally being in the right place.