Chapter Six Maria

Chapter Six

Maria

Salzburg, Austria

1926

When I am finished telling the Reverend Mother about my past she sits in silence for several moments, and I get the impression that she is sorry for me. Of course, I understand now what else she must have been thinking. That it was my fear of men as much as my love of God that sent me to her nunnery after I earned my teaching degree. At the time, however, I only recognized her pity.

"You understand that this Captain is not like your uncle or any of the other men you have come across in your life," she says at last. But tears are welling up in my eyes faster than I can blink them away. "Maria, this is a wonderful opportunity," she continues. "Not just for you, but for those children, who have been without guidance for who knows how long. Nanny after nanny—"

My head snaps up. "They've had multiple nannies?"

"Oh, yes. The Captain says they've been through twenty-six."

What sort of place is she sending me to?

"There are seven children," she explains. "You are only to instruct one of them, but I suspect it will be a somewhat"—she waves her free hand, searching for the word—"noisy household. When he asked if I had anyone who might be able to handle such a situation, I immediately thought of you."

I sit straighter in my chair. A sea captain and seven wild hellions. I can do this. I will.

The Reverend Mother gives my hand a little squeeze. "You are the only one for this job, Maria. I know it."

Bidding farewell to my little class of first graders is heartbreaking. They don't understand why I'm being called away any more than I do, but the main mistress of novices, Frau Rafaela, hurries me on before I can change my mind. She takes me to the candidates' room, which is filled with wardrobes and wooden chests. The last time I was here was two years ago. I was nineteen years old and newly converted.

"All right, my dear." Frau Rafaela opens one of the wardrobes and peers inside. "You'll need something to wear to meet Captain von Trapp."

I don't see why meeting some ancient sea captain warrants changing out of my black skirts and veil, but I wait in silence as she begins to rummage. There's no chance she'll find my old clothes in there. They must have been given to the poor the week I entered the convent. Or thrown away. But eventually Frau Rafaela pulls out something from the back of the wardrobe and beams. "I've found something."

It's a blue twill dress with a wide lace collar. I put it on and Frau Rafaela hands me a floppy hat. When the ensemble is complete, she gives a wistful sigh.

"So fashionable."

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and have to keep from laughing. I do look fashionable! For 1915, the year Frau Rafaela last saw the world outside the convent. "You don't think it's a little big?" I venture. The novice who had owned this dress had obviously been quite a bit heavier than me, and without a belt the dress bears a strong resemblance to a sack.

"Big? It's perfection! Now," she says, radiating excitement, "a pair of shoes."

She picks out what my aunt would have called clodhoppers and claps her hands together at the picture I make. With my floppy hat and my oversized dress, I'm pretty sure I look ridiculous. Not that it matters.

"Come. It's time to bid your farewells."

I blink back tears and Frau Rafaela offers me her wrinkled hand.

"You are only on loan," she reminds me. "You'll be back before you even know it."

I nod and follow obediently as she leads me through the abbey. The other postulants have obviously heard what's happening. They're gathered in my room, and one look at their solemn faces and I begin to cry. The women huddle around me, telling me how wonderful it's going to be. But all I can think about are my first graders and how they're going to feel as though I'm abandoning them.

We cry together and I tell them that the Reverend Mother has made me promise to return every week on my day off. "I'm only on loan," I repeat what Frau Rafaela has said, but it doesn't make any of us feel better.

When the room clears out I stand at the window and look down at the Salzach River, winding its way through the valley. "I'm going to miss this view so much."

Frau Rafaela hands me a scrap of paper with directions to the Captain's home. "You'll be back in six days. Sundays are to be your day off."

I nod. I lived for nineteen years out there. I can do it for another ten months. "It's God's will," I whisper. I repeat this as I gather my things: a leather satchel with two changes of underclothes, my Bible, my guitar. Then I take a last look at the long white room that's been my home these past two years. It's only temporary.

Frau Rafaela follows me out as far as the gates, waving goodbye like a kindly old mother, and I'm reminded of the last time I saw Mutti. But this isn't Mutti's house. I will always be welcome in Nonnberg Abbey. Always.

As I pass from the cool interior of the abbey into the blinding autumn sun, I catch an inscription on one of the old gravestones that reads "God's will hath no why," and I repeat those words in my head. It's not for me to question this. I must follow and trust He will lead me to the path I am meant to travel. And today that path is down a hundred and forty-four stone steps descending from the abbey into the city of Salzburg.

I make my way down the mountain slowly, and when I reach the station I find the bus marked Aigen. It's the most fashionable district in the city of Salzburg.

"Zwanzig Groschen," the driver chirps.

I have exactly this much in coins from Frau Rafaela.

It feels strange to be on a bus again, and stranger still to be wearing someone else's clothes. But if I look as ridiculous as I feel, the driver doesn't say anything. I take the seat closest to the front, because even though I am miserable, I still want to see everything. Then the bus lurches forward and is off.

We roll down the Residenzplantz toward the river, then cross the rickety Karolinenbrücke to the green fields that lay beyond. I know every trail in this corner of Austria. The paths winding through these meadows were my salvation when I didn't want to be at home with Uncle Franz. Then in college I traded fields for mountains and explored every alpine pass and river valley I could find.

I think of those days as the bus rolls toward Aigen. I'd grown increasingly panicked as college drew to a close. Most of the girls planned to move back with their parents after graduation. Others were getting married. I'd been the only student without a place to go. Then one Sunday morning I elbowed my way to the front of the largest Jesuit church in Vienna, believing that Bach's St. Matthew Passion was about to be performed. Instead, a fiery priest by the name of Father Kronseder took the pulpit, and by the time I realized what was happening, there were too many people to make my escape.

For two hours I was forced to listen to nonsense about God. But toward the end the priest began to talk about signs. How divine communication doesn't happen with a fanfare of trumpets or singing angels. How it happens in the form of coincidences, synchronicities, that book you find at exactly the right time with exactly the answer you've been searching for. Now, this made sense. I'd experienced these kinds of communications before. And suddenly I found myself sitting in this priest's office discussing the possibility of God.

That's when I knew. All those years I'd been wrong. After tittering with my friends in the halls and mocking the devout, there was a God, and God was calling to me now.

"Fr?ulein." Someone is calling me, and I realize that the bus is no longer moving. "Fr?ulein, I believe this is your stop."

"Aigen—yes!" I grab my guitar case and leather satchel and find myself standing near a small cluster of village shops. Beyond the shops are wide, open fields. I open the scrap of paper in my hand and read the address. The Villa Trapp.

An old man smoking a pipe looks over at me. "Lost?"

My father used to smoke a pipe, and I inhale the rich scent of the tobacco. "I'm looking for the Villa Trapp," I say.

The man leads me down the street and uses his pipe to point to a park surrounded by a high iron gate.

"A sea captain lives in there?"

The man cracks a smile. "He is not just a Captain, Fr?ulein. He is also a Baron."

I inhale. So while this captain goes off plundering on the high seas, his poor, sickly daughter lies abandoned on this estate, purchased, no doubt, with his ill-gotten gains. I understand now why the Reverend Mother needed me. And no amount of cursing or shouting will deter me from teaching this child. I know what to expect and he can try his worst.

I thank the old man and make my way toward the iron gate. Chestnut trees in the distance obscure whatever lies beyond the long gravel drive, and when I finally reach the clearing I stand in amazement. It's beautiful, a sweeping yellow mansion nestled in the heart of a thick copse of trees.

Several steps lead up to a heavy oak door, and I shift my guitar case to my other hand so that I can grasp the brass knocker. When the door sweeps open, I instinctively step back. The man in front of me isn't old. He's young, with a thick head of blond hair and vibrant blue eyes. He's dressed in the most expensive suit I've ever seen, with polished black shoes and immaculate white gloves. I'm in shock, and drop into my deepest curtsy at once.

"A pleasure to meet you, Captain."

The man's mouth twists wryly. "Save your curtsy, Fr?ulein. I'm only the butler."

I have no idea what this means. We don't have butlers where I'm from any more than we have villas. But I extend my hand and shake his warmly. "Well, I'm Maria," I say.

The man glances over his shoulder. "Hans." I have the impression that shaking his hand is the wrong thing to do, but he only clears his throat. "If you will come with me now, the Captain has been waiting and will see you shortly."

I follow Hans into a large foyer with such lofty ceilings that I can't think how anyone could possibly clean them. I'm about to remark on this when Hans suddenly retreats. I glance around, expecting to see that the Captain has arrived, but I'm the only person in the room. I listen as the butler's footsteps fade away, and it strikes me as strange that for such an enormous house, there's not a sound anywhere. The children must all be out.

I lower my belongings to the floor and, with nothing else to do, make a short tour of the room, wondering what sort of sea captain collects oil paintings. I'm marveling over this when a deep voice makes me turn.

"Fr?ulein Kutschera?"

While Hans had been beautifully dressed, this man is taller and dressed even more elegantly. He has dark hair and an oiled mustache, and I guess him to be in his forties. Many years later, people will say that he looks like Clark Gable. At the time, however, I simply think that being handsome must be a requirement for becoming a butler.

"Yes." I smile, hoping I don't look as nervous as I feel. "And please, just Maria."

"Well, Maria, I see you've acquainted yourself with the paintings. What do you think?"

I make an unattractive noise in my throat. "I'm afraid I don't find fruit a very interesting subject."

"Ah. A shame. My grandfather painted these."

I look at the name scrawled across the bottom of the painting and the realization dawns on me about who he must be. "You—"

The warmth of his smile reaches his eyes. "Captain Georg von Trapp."

He's not like any sea captain that I've ever seen, and when I hold out my hand, I swallow my mortification. "A pleasure to meet you, Captain."

"I see you've come prepared." He's looking down at my old, beat-up satchel and guitar case. In such beautiful surroundings, they surely stick out as sorely as I do.

"Yes. I hope your children like music," I say.

"We are a very musical family." The Captain straightens, and I can see that he takes a great deal of pride in this. "All of my children play an instrument, and your pupil, Mitzi, plays the violin."

"That's wonderful!"

"Yes. There used to be…a great deal of music in this house." His voice trails away, and I can see that the memory of this is painful. He seems to shake himself free of its grip and clears his throat. "Would you like to meet the children?"

"They're here?" I blurt out. The house is silent.

"Certainly." He reaches into the breast pocket of his smart navy suit and takes out a shiny brass whistle. Then he plays a series of notes and the most extraordinary thing I've ever witnessed occurs. A procession of young children begins to make their way silently down the polished wooden stairs, led by a solemn young girl in her teens. At the bottom of the stairs they organize themselves into a neat line, from tallest to shortest, then bow in unison.

" Grüss Gott, Fr?ulein Maria."

The four girls and two boys are dressed in matching navy-and-white sailor's suits. I push back my hat to get a better look at this incredible sight, and the brown monstrosity flutters to the ground. The youngest child, with a head full of golden curls and bright eyes, rushes forward to get it and everyone laughs.

"Thank you, Martina," her father says. Then the little girl hurries to get back into line.

I feel that there's something I'm supposed to say. "Well…the whistle was very unexpected." I immediately regret being so honest, but the Captain smiles.

"I determined it was easier than constantly shouting up three stories." He fixes his gaze on the tallest child, a boy with auburn hair. "If you will introduce yourselves."

The children call out their ages and names, and from oldest to youngest there's Rupert (sixteen), Agathe (fourteen), Werner (twelve), Hedwig (nine), Johanna (seven), and little Martina (five).

"Very pleased to meet you," I say. But I'm confused. There are only six children. "And my pupil?"

"Upstairs," the Captain says quietly. He slips the whistle into his pocket. "We discourage her from coming down."

"I was told she is recovering from scarlet fever," I say softly, in case the little girl can hear us.

"Yes. But now she has influenza, and she doesn't seem to be able to shake it." He nods at the children, and this is evidently their sign to leave because they begin marching obediently up the stairs. They step in unison so that six pairs of feet don't create a cacophony that echoes through the house. And it's only when they've disappeared that the Captain picks up my guitar and satchel.

"Maria is on the third floor," he says, beginning the climb. "We call her Mitzi. She is thirteen and desperately wishes to return to school, but the walk is four miles down a road no car can possibly traverse, and walking is simply not a possibility right now for her."

We reach her bedroom and I stop to admire how beautiful it is. A wide balcony overlooking a meadow fills the entire room with light. Several pieces of antique furniture are positioned throughout, but the most eye-catching is a large wooden bed piled high with pillows. In the middle of the bed lies a very pale girl. Her face is yellow and her eyes look sunken, as if she hasn't had proper nutrition or sleep in some time.

The Captain crosses the room to sit at her side. "Mitzi." He puts down my belongings to take her hand in his, and I wonder if this is what most fathers do with their children. I can't remember my father ever holding me by the hand. "I want you to meet Fr?ulein Maria," he says. "She's come from the abbey to be your teacher."

The girl smiles up at me. "Pleased to meet you." Her eyes fall to the long case on the carpet. "Is that a cello?"

The Captain shakes his head. "A guitar. It belongs to Fr?ulein Maria."

"Oh, will you play it for me?" Mitzi sits up straighter in her bed, but the act brings on a violent coughing fit. Her father hurries to get water from her bedside table, and it's then that I notice that all of the books piled next to the water pitcher have something to do with math.

"You must lie back," the Captain says.

I can see how much this disappoints the girl. She's thirteen, after all. She should be out hiking the Untersberg and exploring Salzburg, not confined to her bed.

"Perhaps I can play for you tomorrow," I say, and this seems to brighten her.

"That would be wonderful."

The Captain studies me for a moment, and I wonder if I've overstepped my bounds. "Shall I show you to your room?"

I smile at Mitzi as we leave, thinking of how incredibly lonely and bored she must be with nothing but math books for company. Then I follow the Captain down the stairs. He stands back to allow me to pass, and when I enter the room that's to be mine over the next ten months, I simply stand beneath the chandelier and stare. From the large white bed covered in silk to the heavy antique furniture arranged tastefully throughout the room, it's fancier than any bedroom I've ever imagined.

The Captain places my belongings on a small brocade bench, then fixes me in his gaze. "Mitzi's last nanny only stayed with us for two months. I hope we will have the pleasure of your company for longer."

"Yes. Ten months," I say firmly.

"Right." He clears his throat. "Since their mother died four years ago they've had very little stability. Thankfully, the Hausdame has always remained." I'm not familiar with this term, and my ignorance must show because he adds, "The Baroness Matilda. She runs the house while I'm away."

Later, I discover that only a member of the nobility is fit to be a Hausdame for a baron. Her job is to instill manners and see that the traditions of the nobility are carried on by the younger generation. In Baroness Matilda's case, she was there to oversee a staff of more than twenty people as well.

"I'm sure you will get on well with the Baroness," the Captain says. "She was happy to hear that a postulant would be taking over Mitzi's studies."

I'm wondering why when the Captain suddenly gives a little bow and moves to the doorway. At the threshold, he pauses and says, "The dinner bell will ring shortly."

I walk to the bay window and look out. Meadows stretch from the back of the house to the base of the Untersberg, bright green and thick with marigolds and asters. I can recognize all the mountains in the distance, from the Hagengebirge to the Staufen, and the sight of them brings me some comfort. Somewhere out there, at the eastern foot of the Festenburg, the other postulants are setting up the evening meal. Ingrid is probably whistling in the kitchen while Gisela tests the soup and insists it needs more salz.

Tears prick the back of my eyes. But before I can start to cry, I cross the room and begin arranging my few things. My nightdress and coat look lonely in the giant wardrobe all by themselves. Even my extra pair of old boots looks sad to be there. I've never had so much space to myself. I place my Bible and the Rule of Saint Benedict on my nightstand, then sit at the edge of my bed and wonder what I'm doing here. Tonight, there will be singing in the abbey, and tomorrow morning when the Gregorian chanting begins, I won't be there.

Just as I'm beginning to feel really sorry for myself, a bell starts to ring and there's the sound of many feet echoing on the stairs. There's whispering outside my door.

"Do you think she heard the bell?"

"I don't know. Should we knock?"

I open the door and two children jump back. I easily recognize Agathe, who is fourteen and the eldest of the girls. But I'm not sure about the younger one. "Agathe and Hedwig?" I venture.

The youngest giggles. "Agathe and Johanna," she corrects sweetly. "Hedwig is nine and I'm only seven. Did you know that it's suppertime?"

"Oh, is that what that bell is?" I play along.

"Yes." She slips her little hand in mine as if it's the most natural thing in the world. I can't remember a time when Mutti held my hand. Or anyone except the Reverend Mother, for that matter. "It rings three times a day," she says as we descend. "Cook rings it. Do you have a cook where you live?"

"Where I live, we all take turns being cook."

Johanna stares up at me with big, dark eyes. "You get to chop things and use a knife?" she exclaims.

"Every week. And sometimes"—I wink at her—"we even make stew."

She squeals and hurries down several stairs to tell Hedwig that the new nanny is a real live maker of stews. And there is no stopping the excitement after this. Hedwig, who is nine, wants to know if I've ever made pudding, while Agathe watches me curiously, then whispers, "Do you really cook?"

"Oh, definitely. In the abbey there's no one to do these things for us."

She looks at me as if I might be an actual saint and I laugh. None of these children has ever cooked a meal!

We reach the dining room and I'm pleased to see it's not as large as I feared. In spite of the elaborate chandelier hanging overhead, the room feels cozy. The Captain is already seated at the head of a long table set for ten. At the other end is a formidable-looking woman who must be the Baroness. She appears to be in her fifties, with white hair swept high into a bun. She doesn't smile as I enter the room or make any attempt to greet me.

The children rush to their seats at once, but I hesitate until the Baroness nods at the empty chair to her left. I take my seat and realize that Mitzi is sitting across from me. Like her siblings, she is dressed for dinner, and I wonder about the wisdom of such a sickly child being asked to put on heavy taffeta and lace. But then what do I know? I'm still wearing Frau Rafaela's oversized gown from the convent.

There's a great deal of noise as chairs scrape over the wooden floor. Then silence falls as the soup is being served and Rupert exclaims, "So what is it tonight?" At sixteen, he's the eldest, and I realize with a start that he's only six years younger than me.

"Oh, I hope it's pudding," Johanna shouts next to me.

The Baroness exhales slowly. "It's most certainly not pudding."

Hans arrives and, as if on cue, lifts the metal lid on a steaming pork roast. There are no roasts of any kind at the convent, but all around the table are disappointed groans.

"Again?" Hedwig whines. She turns to me and explains in her most earnest nine-year-old voice, "Every time a new nanny arrives it's pork roast and potatoes. Pork roast and potatoes."

"We're tired of pork roasts," Johanna complains.

"Well, perhaps this will be the last pork we see for ten months," I say brightly.

"I doubt it," someone grumbles from farther down the table and the Captain scowls.

"Enough." He sounds less angry than tired, like a man who simply doesn't have it in him to fight. "If you wish, Fr?ulein Maria, you may say a prayer. Though it's not our custom."

"Oh, certainly." I'm sure it wasn't anything special. You would think I'm reciting the alphabet in Greek by the way the children look at me. At the end of it, the Captain smiles briefly and says, "Wonderful," then quietly turns to his food.

As Hans serves each of us in turn, there's silence. Of course, I am used to silence. In Nonnberg, we are allowed to speak for only an hour a day. But here it's unnerving. When I was a child, we always had lively discussions around the dinner table, even when Uncle Franz was present.

I listen to the sounds of forks clinking against china, then the sound of the wind rustling the autumn leaves outside. And just when I feel I can't bear the silence any longer, the Captain clears his throat and makes an announcement.

"Children, I am afraid I have business in Belgium to attend to tomorrow. I may be gone for some time."

I expect there to be protests, but the children merely pause for a moment to look up at their father, then return sadly to their plates. I glance at the Baroness to see what she makes of this, but her face is unreadable.

"Well, Belgium is lovely," I say, hoping to start up some conversation. "Will you be going to Brussels?"

The Captain frowns. "Antwerp," he replies, and it's clear by the way he returns to his dinner that he doesn't anticipate any more discussion.

"Ah, I've never been to Antwerp," I continue. At the other end of the table, Rupert and Agathe watch me intently. "You said you'll be gone for some time?" I ask. "What precisely does that mean?"

The Captain's eyes widen, and it occurs to me that he's probably unaccustomed to being questioned. But it doesn't matter. These are his children. They should know how long their only parent will be gone. "Perhaps seven weeks."

I feel a small hand reach for mine under the table. Johanna, one of the youngest, has tears in her eyes.