Chapter 1: Prologue: Losses
Chapter Text
Cattaro, 1 November 1918
The Imperial and Royal flag waved proudly for a few moments in the damp, salty air, accompanied by a 21-gun salute, before being lowered, never to be hoisted again. The day felt heavy, the sky a low, grey blanket mirroring the mood in the harbour.
The exiting commander was not going to leave it in the hands of the new administration—not even when the new commander was a friend. He had seen too many men, officers and sailors alike, turn their backs on the Monarchy the moment it suited them. He did not blame the poor conscripts, exhausted and starving, but still, the speed at which old allegiances dissolved left a bitter taste. Even the Admiral had already declared for the new order.
No, the flag was going back to Austria – or what was left of it – with him.
“You’ll need help with that, if you want to fold it, von Trapp,” Knežević said with warmth in his voice and his eyes, but also a little bit of amusement, pointing at the flag in Georg’s hands.
“Yes, thank you, Knežević, very kind of you.” The proud former Korvettenkapitän von Trapp sounded distant, almost glacial, but his friend and comrade knew he was just masking the pain he was feeling behind a stony face and a glacial facade.
Almost as if he had recognised that this was not the way to interact with someone who was still a friend, he added, with some warmth back in his voice: “I have to say, I am glad it is you I am relinquishing my submarine base to.”
“You mean you don’t fancy a meeting with the French, or the British, or the Italians, hey?” Knežević tried to defuse the tension and sadness that he could sense in his friend. Alas, it was no use, but at least it helped him address something that he knew he had to discuss with the stubborn Austrian officer.
“You know very well that I do not hate anyone, and that I served in the Navy out of love for my country, not out of hate,” Georg replied.
“Von Trapp, it’s not about how you feel about the Allies. It’s about what the Allies would do if they got their hands on Lieutenant Commander von Trapp, who has singlehandedly sunk or damaged submarines and ships in the Mediterranean. It’s about what people have in their minds right now: to put their hands on as many ships, weapons, and to get as much land they can inside their borders.”
Georg kept folding, his face showing he did not agree with what Knežević told him.
“You know you are my friend, and you know all of you are our esteemed guests here. But this will not be true anywhere. Steer away from Slovenian land, and I would advise you to be wary of the homecoming Serbian Army as well.”
“I thought you were all united under the same flag now.”
“We are; and yet we all know very well who is a Croat, who a Slovene and who a Serb. Not that you would notice: your Croatian is atrocious! You keep mixing it up with Slovene,” he chuckled. “But maybe now you will have the chance to improve it.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a long journey through Croatian land before you.”
“Why would I go such a long route?”.
“Von Trapp, were you planning on sailing to Trieste, drinking a coffee there and then reaching Zell am See by train as in the past? I know you are grieving, but I didn’t think your thought process was impaired! Are you listening to what you are saying? Stay away from trouble. The Allies are trouble for you, and the wrong Slovenes might be too. And definitely do not enter Austria through Carinthia, where even some of us might not be too friendly towards the German-speaking. The borders are not set yet, and you don’t know who is going to turn on whom.”
Georg von Trapp listened, disbelief and a badly concealed disgust on his face, arms crossed and posture rigid. He was a warrior stripped of his purpose, a captain without a ship.
Knežević continued: “In my new role as a Yugoslavian commander, I will write you all an official travel permit. I will also add a more informal safe passage certificate to show that you are an esteemed friend of our people and a guest of Croatia. It might get you farther than a formal permit, in some situations.”
“Thank you, my friend. I hope I can return the favour in the future.”
“You will repay me by sending me regular letters about how happy you are to be back at the Erlhof with Agathe and your five little urchins, and maybe how there is a sixth von Trapp on the way already, and who knows.”
For the first time, a genuine smile appeared on Georg’s face, briefly thawing the glacial façade. His leaves had become fewer and shorter upon his appointment to commander of the Cattaro base, as opposed to the years as a mere submarine hero. “I do look forward to seeing them again. I have barely seen Brigitta. She is now two…”
“Go to them. Pack your things, rest tonight and then leave with the others tomorrow early in the morning. I will see if I can find someone to drive you for a while. Oh, and when you are in Hungary, go have tea with Horthy and send him my regards,” Knežević added, accompanying his words with a firm pat on Georg’s shoulder.
“The only regards I would be sending him would mainly consist of my spit in his face, the fucking turncoat!”
“That is not how you travel safely to Zell am See to rejoin your family. Besides, Austria-Hungary is no more. He might have waited a little longer, but no one would have expected him to declare for Austria instead of Hungary.”
“I am sorry, Knežević. You are right.” He turned wistfully to the sea, longing in his eyes. “Agathe and the children are all that I have left. But I will miss the sea and the Navy…”
“Don’t linger on any of it. Depart, leave this place, and try to forget. A clear cut, and a new life. You just said you have Agathe and the children. Many of us don’t have that luxury: a marriage of convenience, a disease carrying our spouses or children away… some will be going home without anything else to live for.”
Georg von Trapp agreed, a silent acknowledgment of the privilege he still possessed, even in loss.
“And maybe one day we will meet again, and you will tell me all about your new life… what will it be, in the mountains? Or in town? Or in the country? And your… probably ten children? More? Fewer?”
Klosterneuburg, August 1922
Robert Whitehead stood a few steps after the threshold of his villa, watching the sad comings and goings, the staff helping Georg load the motorcars. The air was thick with unspoken grief.
He would miss those dear children, which were all that was left to him of his equally dear sister. And so would Frank, and Joan, of course. Definitely Constance too, not to mention Connie Baby. Salzburg wasn’t too far away, especially not to them – motorcar, status and all –, and yet he knew that at least in this instance Georg was right: they had to go.
His brother by marriage and friend had not said it outright. I need to move somewhere else, where I am not haunted by memories, both the happy and the sad ones. He would have at least hoped Georg would be finding his way out of the deepest, unbearable grief in a reasonable amount of time. Hell, he himself knew it would take time to stop thinking this is where my sister hoped to get old with her beloved Georg, where she had her last baby, where she got ill, and where she died.
No, he had said: “It is time we gave you back your villa, Robert. It was kind of you to offer it to us, but now that I have found an occasion in Salzburg, I am going to take it and finally own my place, just in time for the children to begin school.” All with the same stony face he had adopted from the moment he had reached the villa after his phone call with its mournful tidings.
Say her name. Scream you miss her. Tell your children you are as bereaved as they are. I know you are. Stop being this distant! So many times, from that dreadful day onwards, he had noticed Georg’s jaws clenching, clearly trying to keep tears or a scream inside. Men don’t cry, military heroes especially didn’t, or so the rumour went.
At first, Robert had thought that he wanted to maintain some decorum while dealing with the funeral home, with the parish priest. He assumed he also wanted to avoid hitting the children with the intensity of his instant heartbreak, which he guessed must have been dreadful. Georg had been with her, holding her hand, and then was left with her from the middle of the night till the morning (his choice): he must have gotten the worst of it out during those hours.
Agathe had known she was dying, had known for a while, and had been very explicit with all of them adults. They had time to prepare themselves, as much as one can ever be prepared to watch a beloved one die so young.
Agathe had wanted to protect the children. Until the very end, she asked them to pray—"so we can speed up my recovery," she’d say with a smile that only the younger ones believed. She told them to be dutiful and good, "to help Papa, Aunt Connie, and Uncle Robert relax—because they are very tired."
It worked, for a time. Little Martha and baby Gretl clung to every word, reassured by their mother’s voice. Brigitta—sharp-eyed but still a child—accepted it too, though she watched Agathe’s face more closely than her words. Even Kurt, ever the optimist, had nodded solemnly.
But Liesl, at twelve, was already standing on the edge of childhood, old enough to recognize what no one wanted to say aloud. Friedrich and Louisa, both too bright and too old to be fooled, understood before she did. And so, while the younger children prayed for a miracle, the older ones braced for what was coming.
Georg’s and his own motorcar were almost ready to depart, and the children came out, Gretl in Georg’s arms, Martha led by Liesl.
It happened fast. Liesl stepped forward first, Friedrich and Louisa flanking her like sentries. “Father, can we stop at Mamá’s grave? Just once more before we go?”
“It won’t take long—just to lay a flower. To say goodbye.”
Georg’s jaw tightened, but his voice was even. “We were there yesterday, Liesl. Nothing has changed, still the same cold marble grave as yesterday. We have a long ride before us, and we cannot waste time.” He didn’t look at Liesl—he couldn’t.
Liesl, despite her raw disappointment, at least heard what her father would not say, a thing that she would always carry with her in her heart in the years to come; Joan and Constance gazed at the floor, not finding enough courage to intervene; Frank and Robert exchanged looks, Robert nodding to his brother.
Robert urged, “Children, get into the car, please.” Frank pulled Georg’s arm and directed him back into the hall.
Frank started: “For God’s sake, this has to end. Say her name.” Georg flinched, just for a second. “Look at her children. Cry on her grave with them, hug them tight as you do. It will get better, you know, what with being in Salzburg and time passing by…”
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do!” Georg cut him off, his voice low but razor-sharp, his bite as bitter as his grief.
Robert suggested: “We are just asking you to be… yourself with the children. To show them who you really are, the man who loved their mother, and the man who loves them. This distant, cold man is not you.”
“I’m doing what she asked. I bought the house. I’m moving them in.”
“She also asked you to love them always, to make up for her loss...”
“I do love them. So much.” Georg’s voice almost broke. He adjusted Gretl in his arms, as if the movement could anchor him.
The Whitehead brothers hoped it would be enough. That Salzburg, time, and distance would soften the stone.
That one day, he’d say her name first.
“Just make sure they know.”
Chapter 2: A butterfly flaps its wings
Summary:
A simple thing: Sister Margarethe delivers a message, and Maria's life as well as the one of the people she is going to meet changes forever.
Maria is an esteemed teacher with an interesting past. She meets Captain von Trapp, and both manage to make a very good first impression on the other. Alas, the Captain ruins everything with a second impression. Only Maria's immediate affection for the children does not have her flee the villa immediately.
Frau Schmidt reveals the Captain has an interesting past, too; the Trapp children have one of their meetings, a tradition of theirs that will follow us for the entire story.
Notes:
Expect familiar elements (from film and real story) interwoven with fresh perspectives on character and story development. So, don't skim!
Feel free to use Google Maps to check the places mentioned (or to ask).
Of course, the looks of the characters are as in film canon.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Wednesday, 7 April 1926
Sister Margarethe paused at the threshold, watching the infamous postulant Maria Rainer in an unguarded moment. She had heard plenty about her—the impossible novice, the spirited troublemaker—but she preferred to form her own opinion.
Maria sat bent over a desk, correcting a stack of student workbooks. Her brow furrowed in concentration, her pen moving swiftly, yet she was humming. No—whistling. And not just any tune, but the Gregorian chant Salve Regina!
How many times had Sister Bertha warned her? No singing outside of functions. No whistling—ever!
And yet, here she was. A dedicated teacher, a woman of great faith, and—despite her many transgressions—an almost perfect embodiment of the Benedictine ora et labora, pray and work. What an odd contradiction she was!
Perhaps the Reverend Mother would find a solution.
Sister Margarethe could not know that her next action would set into motion a chain of events that would change many lives forever. To her, this was simply God’s will. But then, to a devoted nun, everything was.
She stepped into the room—Maria still singing to herself as she worked—tapped her on the shoulder, and delivered her message.
“The Reverend Mother Abbess expects you in her private parlour.”
Maria’s head snapped up. The Mother Abbess herself?
For which transgression this time?
The Reverend Mother bid her ave, the antique door opened, and Maria faced her destiny with as much courage as she could muster.
Would this be about her hike of the entire Nonnberg-Mönchsberg-Rainberg ridge last Saturday afternoon? The sun was so bright and warm that she hadn’t resisted! And she had never explored the entire ridge until that moment, after being in Salzburg since the autumn! It was definitely worth it!
Was it the singing and whistling—again?
Was it her questioning authorities—as usual?
Well, it was time to discover it.
“Come in, my dear child. Sit down here, near me. How are you?” The sweetest voice she had ever heard— a striking contrast to Sister Bertha’s usual summoning and lecturing—had just invited her in. All would be well.
The Reverend Mother continued. “I hope your headaches are growing better, my child. Was your Saturday hiking a response to a headache?”
Lying is a sin. “No, Reverend Mother. It was the sun and the warmth: I just had to go out, to feel the sun on my skin, to be a part of it! I apologise!”
“There is nothing to apologise about, my child. That is not why I called you here today. How is the situation at school? I only hear praise about you!”
“Oh, Reverend Mother, yes! My pupils are making steady progress. They’ve learned to accept the ‘boring’ lessons because they know creative activities will follow. So… this meeting isn’t about my whistling, singing, climbing, hiking, or challenging authority?”
“Absolutely not, Maria. Do you think your colleagues might have picked up your pedagogical approach a little bit?”
“I suppose so, unless they are envious or close-minded… oops! I didn’t mean to judge, Reverend Mother!”
“Maria, stop apologising. Good, good, so your work at the school has left its mark. Now, tell me, my child: what is the most important lesson you have learnt here?”
That sounded very promising to Maria, who answered without a moment of hesitation, “To find out what is the will of God and to do it wholeheartedly!”
Would this be about her taking vows?
“Even when it’s not pleasant, or when it’s hard?”
Maria’s enthusiasm was rising. “Yes, even then!”
The Mother Abbess stood up, sighed, and reprised. “It seems to be the will of God that you leave us.”
Maria was horrified. “Leave?”
“Only for a while, Maria. I am not rejecting you.”
“Oh, please don’t send me away! Just as I had found my life…”
“Have you found your life, Maria? Are you prepared for this kind of life? Have you really thought about it?”
“Yes, of course! I felt it that day, after a hike…”
“Perhaps, if you’d go out into the world for a time, knowing what we expect of you, you will have the chance to find out if this is truly what you were meant for. Now you know that your calling as a teacher was definitely spot-on, for example. You know your strengths and weaknesses when it comes to a life of seclusion and prayer in a convent. You are still so young, Maria. Then there is the matter with your headaches, growing worse any time you spend too much time inside, out of the fresh air and light.”
“Oh, please, please, let me stay here. I will refrain from whistling!”
“Maria, what did you just tell me about the will of God?” She reprimanded
“I apologise, Reverend Mother. If you say it’s God’s will…”
“There is a family near Salzburg that needs a governess and a teacher, presumably for about a year. It’s for their seven children…”
“SEVEN CHILDREN?”
The Reverend Mother’s stare reminded her of what she had just agreed to.
“…as I was saying, for their seven children, who all need a governess. The youngest ones will also need a teacher: one of the children recently had the influenza, and now cannot seem to be able to manage the walk to school and back; the other is still too young for school, but the father would like her to find a meaningful occupation, to prepare her for school and life. I think you are the perfect fit for the job for all the reasons I have just listed, and it is clear that Captain von Trapp contacting us was God showing us his will.”
“I am sorry… you said Captain…”
“Captain Georg von Trapp, a retired officer of the Imperial and Royal Navy, one of our war heroes, I am told. A fine man, and a brave one. His wife died four years ago leaving him alone with the children. I understand he needs someone qualified, someone who can handle all kinds of situation with a group of children. Someone from town had told him the tale of a miracle teacher at our school, and so he contacted us, hoping to find a solution to his problem. One of the other sisters can take over the class from you, as I judged that this family needs you more than the pupils.”
Maria’s perplexity about the situation battled with her resolution to accept the will of God. The signs were, indeed clear; such a coincidence…
“Of course, you will use this time to reflect on what you think God’s gift to you were meant for, and you will learn to recognise God’s hand in your life. You will have a weekly meeting here at the Abbey, for spiritual guidance, but you will be back to your life as a young woman with a profession. When your assignment is over, we will discuss what you have learnt.”
“I understand, Reverend Mother.”
“Captain von Trapp expects you next Saturday after lunch, so that you can meet the children. You will use these days to wrap up your work with your class and to prepare your successor. Now, come here child, and kneel down: I want to give you my blessing.”
Maria complied, and entrusted her life to God completely.
At least now she could sing and whistle again!
10 April 1926
Shortly after lunch, Maria made her way towards Residenzplatz, dressed in the only secular clothes that were available that day—some horrible, outdated grey dress with a weird helmet-like leather hat. She chose to go down the street instead of taking the stairs, to be able to lose herself in her thoughts without worrying too much about her steps.
It was a strange feeling, being again a young woman in the world and not a postulant. Well, technically she was still a postulant, just on probation, or something like that. However, she was now free to partake in some secular pastimes— in fact, she had been encouraged to confront herself with the world, to be able to find where her gift could leave an indelible positive mark, where she could make a change.
She would have thought her way to her vows would have been even more strict discipline (at least, this was the impression she had received from Sister Bertha.) And yet, all the Reverend Mother had said made sense. And all those coincidences… how that family seemed to need someone exactly like her… What had the Lord in store for her?
The only thing that scared her was the idea of a sea captain. She had never met one before—heavens, she had never even seen the sea! She imagined this man she was going to meet as the sea captains she knew from story books, pictures, and a few films she had managed to watch in Vienna. An ugly, elderly man with a beard, a tan, and bearing the signs of his hard-earned victories at sea on face and body.
When she passed by the Stieglkeller, she thought to herself, now I am free to go inside and order whatever I want! Her last wages had been returned to her, now that she was out in the world again. I could just enter, order a beer, sit down and drink it. Ironically, she was suddenly reminded of a ridiculous discussion with one of her pals of the Social Democratic youth, “Stiegl beer is bourgeoise. We revolutionaries only drink Ottakringer.” It had been a long time ago, so many lives of hers ago, and this made her smile.
But no, it was time to take the bus to Aigen. Villa Trapp, Traunstraße, Aigen near Salzburg read her piece of paper.
I have confidence in me, she encouraged herself.
The bus left her at the Aigen train station, and the driver showed her the path to follow, slightly uphill. She enjoyed the walk, which reminded her of her beloved hikes and treks, until she reached the driveway. It was a grand and elegant villa, and for the first time she knew fear.
If her faith hadn’t been that strong, she would have turned away, never to come back.
She stepped forward. When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.
As she approached the door, she suddenly felt curious, and she decided to peep through the windows. Alas, she could only see something red and white hanging from… something? On the wall?
Well, there was only one way to find out.
After she rang the doorbell, an elegant and heavy wooden door opened, and an elegant, elderly man in Tracht appeared.
“Grüß Gott! I am from the Abbey! I am the new governess, Captain!” She stretched out her hand in a manner of greeting.
The man stared at her from head to toe, his face not betraying any emotions. He shook her hand briefly and lightly, as if it were a ball and not a genuine handshake.
“I am the butler, Franz. Welcome to Villa Trapp, Fräulein,” he said bowing to her lightly, his tone unreadable, and she was let inside.
As Franz announced, “I will go get the Captain,” she found out what the red and white hanging from somewhere was: the largest Austrian flag she had ever seen, definitely from the Monarchy, considering the crest it was sporting.
She gawked at the grand hall, then swung back to the flag—vast, commanding, one edge frayed.
She had never seen a ship before, but, apparently, they had to be huge, if that was the size of the flags they flew. If she edged closer, might she catch a whiff of salt?
“I see you are looking at my flag,” a voice cut in—elegant, rich, startling her.
She turned, and she saw a tall, elegant, lordly man, impeccably dressed in a grey and green Trachtenanzug, a suit in the style of the typical local clothing, tailored to perfection. He had dark hair, blue eyes, and—albeit older than her (had to be, if he fought in the war) and slightly tanned— was definitely not the bearded, elderly man she had pictured in her mind.
Her plans for a life of chastity and seclusion notwithstanding, her brain suggested, Not an ugly man. No—far from it. Too far.
She must have been staring, because the man interrupted her musing with a “Am I right in supposing that you are Fräulein Maria Rainer, the wonder teacher from Nonnberg the town is talking about?”
“Oh… oh… yes, sir! Forgive me sir! Grüß Gott, Captain,” and Maria—thoughts colliding, brain overloading—, popped out a salute, palm out, snatched from her wartime soldier glimpses.
A corner of his mouth twitched. Was that an attempt at repressing a smile? Maria thought just before the Captain remarked, “I guess that this is not part of your school program, but that was not a Navy salute.” Her raw honesty, that flag-struck awe, hit him fresh—no mockery here, just respect, clumsy and true. The town’s praise for her rang in his ears.
“Oh, oh… I am sorry, Captain. I had no idea. Really? What did I do wrong?”
“Navy salutes palm down.” He snapped a crisp demo—hand flat, sure. “Yours—palm out, Army.” That twitch lingered—amusement, a flicker of joy?—his voice warm, not cold. She had just met the man; she couldn’t tell for sure. “But where are my manners? Captain Georg von Trapp,” and this time he outstretched his hand. His handshake was brisk, firm. “Pleasure to meet you!”
But then, his face returned abruptly serious, very serious. “I hope you had no trouble finding us? Now, I am not sure what the Abbey told you about your work here. You are the twelfth in a long line of governesses who have come to look after my children in the last four years.” Maria noted his wording. “I trust that you will be an improvement on the last one. She stayed only,” a little dramatic pause, two hours!”
Maria almost blurted out, “What is wrong with the children,” as her nature would have suggested, but fortunately her teaching degree had helped her manage this kind of situations more professionally. “Do you think you know the source of the problem, sir?”
“They were all completely unable to maintain discipline, without which this house can’t be properly run. I have structured their life in order to prioritise their studies, walks, and marches, to optimise their learning, and to prepare them for life. All of these has to be performed under strict decorum.”
She could partially agree with the Captain’s intent—preparing the children for life— but… “Excuse me, what about their playtime?”
“Their activities will be strictly controlled. I refuse to have my children waste away their time. Reading materials and games will be strictly regulated. We will meet regularly to discuss my expectation.”
Well, the man at least is involved in the life of his children… but if this is what he does, I almost wish he weren’t! It sounds… like a convent! Or probably a barrack, a particularly elegant one. Wait, does the Navy have barracks?
“Are we clear, Fräulein?” She really needed to control her inner dialogue.
“Oh… yes, sir.”
“As for your teaching duties: one of my daughters hasn’t recovered completely from the influenza, and finds the long walk to school too much still. The doctor assures she will recover in her due time, but right now, she needs to keep up academically. The other one you’ll teach is too young for school, but I believe she can still learn something useful. We will discuss their program together.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One last thing: would you mind changing before meeting the children?”
“Oh… but I don’t have another dress!”
“You don’t?”
“You see, when we enter the convent, we give all of our secular clothes to the poor…”
“What about this one?”
“Well, the poor didn’t want this one.” That corner of the Captain’s mouth twitched again, only to return to his previous solemnity in a matter of seconds. “But I can make my own clothes, don’t worry,” she glossed.
The captain was all astonishment. “Well, then I will let you have some material. Today, if possible.”
And with that, the captain who did not look like a captain pulled out a brass thing out of his pocket. She immediately identified it as a whistle as he used it to pipe a rather distinctive and loud trill.
She heard the children before she saw them, doors opening and closing, steps heavy on the wooden floor. Soon a line of children appeared on the balcony. Falling in line and… oh, heavens, at attention? And were they all wearing matching sailor suits? Maria hoped it was just her brain playing tricks on her.
The whistle piped again—probably the signal for “march forward” —, then started punctuating their marching rhythm. And it was then that Maria prayed to the Lord… that he please, please show her in a very short time what was his will, because unless this was all an hallucination conjured by her nervousness, she seriously doubted that this was a healthy environment for the children.
The handsome, elegant and polite captain, who seemed to have some wit hidden under his expensive tailored suit, was apparently burdened by an awful pedagogical attitude, almost as a reminder that only God was perfect, humanity was not.
Her prayer to the Lord finished, the children fell back in line again, this time in front of her, the whistle guiding them until their stop.
“So, Fräulein Maria, these are my children. Children, this is Maria, your new governess.”
“Grüß Gott, Fräulein Maria!” Five curtseys (with various degrees of perfection) and two impeccable bows accompanied the greeting.
“Grüß Gott, children. Pleasure to meet you,” she replied automatically, then took a good look at her new charges.
The first observation that came to her mind was that the children all bore an incredible resemblance to their father. After a closer inspection, she did notice the slightly different shade of eyes or hair here and here, or the shape of their eyes or nose differing, and she assumed that, upon looking on a picture of their mother, she would be able to understand who really looked like whom. Maybe… now that she looked more intently… the youngest girl might look her mother? The younger boy, a little bit like his mother? This or that shape of the eyes or of the nose? But all in all, the impression that she received was that the resemblance to their father was striking. Beautiful children, all of them.
The second observation was that they all looked as elegant as their father, but incredibly serious. Too serious. Probably the result of the Captain’s peculiar approach.
The third thing? Their posture. They were still at attention. Definitely at attention.
And… she had been lost in her thoughts again. The Captain must have noticed, because he was staring at her with his grave countenance, almost waiting for her. Maria, still reeling from the sheer absurdity of what she was witnessing, barely registered that the Captain was watching her. He was waiting. Expecting something.
“So, if you will please listen very carefully, Fräulein, I will call each and every one of my children with their signal and introduce their names. You will learn the signals in time to be able to call them.”
Dear Lord, he expects me to take this seriously. Maria scheduled an entire Rosary for her evening. She needed all of her strength to be able to face this, a strength that only the Lord could provide.
So, she learned that her charges were Liesl (almost a young woman) Friedrich, Louisa, Kurt (a chubby-cheeked boy whom she immediately wanted to hug), Brigitta; then the two endearing youngest ones, Martha, and Gretl.
“Martha and Gretl will be academically entrusted to you for the time being, in addition to your governess duties to all of the children.” The Captain’s voice seemed to soften a little.
“Now, Fräulein, if you please, we should start practicing their signals. Will you take this, please? The children will help you, of course. This is a large house, the gardens are extensive, and I will not have people shouting at each other.” She took it reluctantly, just to be able to move past this moment, already hoping the father would disappear, somehow.
But there was more. “Now, when I want you, this is what you will hear.”
No, no, no, no, no. This was where she drew the line, will of God or not. She interrupted the start of what sounded like an elaborate trill— “I’m sorry… I’m sorry, sir!”
“What is it, Fräulein?”
“I understand that you still cherish your Navy traditions, sir, but for those of us with no connection to the Navy, whistles are for dogs, cats, and other animals. So, I trust you’ll understand that you do not have my agreement on this”
The Captain regarded her like a man who had not been spoken to this way in a very long time—if ever. “Fräulein, were you this much trouble at the Abbey—aside from your teaching, of course?”
“Oh, much more, sir!”
The Captain nodded, his face on the verge of furious, then turned on his heel.
She could not resist.
A single blow, a trill.
The Captain stopped in his tracks and turned back to her.
“Excuse me sir, I don’t know your signal,” she said, all wide-eyed innocence, the picture of a dutiful student—if that student had a streak of pure mischief.
“You may call me Captain.”
Oh, yes, he was furious! She would not be able to take Communion tomorrow, but it was absolutely worth it!
As soon as the odious man had left the hall (how opinions can shift in a matter of minutes!), her charges burst in a controlled laugh, a thing that at least proved to her that not all joy had been forcibly extracted from the poor orphans.
Maria clapped her hands together and smiled at them. “At ease,” she said with playful authority.
The children hesitated for a moment, glancing at each other, before relaxing—if only slightly.
“Well, since I’ll be living with you, I’d love to know a little more about you. Let’s try again—with your ages this time!”
The eldest, Liesl, stepped forward, perfect posture, serene confidence. “I’m Liesl, and I’m sixteen years old. And I don’t need a governess!” She delivered it with the assurance of someone accustomed to being the most grown-up in the room, and aware of her status.
Maria tilted her head, undeterred. “Well, I am glad you told me. We’ll simply be friends.”
Liesl hesitated, clearly not expecting such a response. The others exchanged glances—it seemed the new governess was going to be… different.
Friedrich, standing tall at fourteen, clearly eager to impress, smirked at his sister’s expense before stating his own age and labelling himself as “impossible”, as some other governess had apparently told him.
Louisa, thirteen, smirked as if she already knew and understood more than she should. Eleven-year-old Kurt grinned, a hint of mischief in his eyes, but also a need for affection. This boy had apparently been labelled as “incorrigible”. Brigitta, ten, was watching Maria closely, but she seemed to share her brother’s thirst for affection and closeness.
Martha, a wide-eyed soon-to-be-seven, had the openness of a child still willing to believe in magic, and little Gretl, the baby of the family at five, stepped forward with all the confidence of someone who knew her cuteness was an advantage.
Maria wanted to hug and kiss them all. Instead, she took a steadying breath.
These weren’t just playful labels—impossible, incorrigible—they were judgments the children had learned to wear, like ill-fitting uniforms. And if no one had ever told them otherwise, what choice did they have but to believe them?
And what about the sadness tucked away beneath all that stiff formality? The whole uniform-marching-attention charade?
Well.
That would have to change.
This is also why, as they came nearer and asked innocent questions about her career as a teacher, she didn’t suspect anything; and why, when she was startled by a frog in her pocket while climbing the stair with the housekeeper, Frau Schmidt—the children on their way to marching in the garden— she didn’t resort immediately to discipline, but preferred to wait.
This would take time, but after all, the Lord had sent her for about a year.
Of course, she managed to be the last one at dinner. They should have put up signs in the villa. She had got lost!
The Captain was now wearing an elegant suit of the kind she might see on an Italian or an English gentleman—also tailored, of course,— and the children were all wearing something elegant, she observed. Did they really tailor children’s clothes like that? She supposed she had to get used to the many peculiarities of the aristocracy.
She did not observe her chair.
She plopped down on a huge pinecone, and reacted as discomposed as the first time she was put on a pair of skis (a memory she would have rather left hidden in the darkest corner of her mind), letting out an indescribable noise she tried to mask as laughter.
“Enchanting little ritual. Something you learnt at the Abbey?” All enunciated in velvety sarcastic tones.
The evil father was now making jokes at her expense? Oh, no. no. Her retaliation would now lead to at least two Sundays without Communion.
“No, it’s just a… ahem… an old sport injury.” The children were still her priority —if she had to endure this battle of wits, she would do it without throwing them to the wolves. (and after all, that old skiing injury was NOT a lie).
After shocking the family with a simple request—saying grace was apparently not a custom of the house— it was time to apply one of her own strategies, courtesy of the State Teachers’ College of Progressive Education, to curb the children’s enthusiasm for mischief without turning into a copy of—she supposed— all of the previous governesses, or —even worse—their horrible father.
She thanked the children for their thoughtful gift that afternoon with a panegyric about how welcomed she had felt, all the while getting on their ogre father’s nerves AND telling him that the nature of the gift was all a secret between the children and her. This brought to her a success far beyond what she had imagined: the children felt seriously terrible and cried, and their monstrous father was furious.
3 weeks without Communion.
Maria’s plan of a Rosary before bed had to give way to a surprising invitation, that of Frau Schmidt, the housekeeper. While assisting Frau Schmidt in putting the children to bed for the first time— their tentative truce making things easier— she was asked, “Fräulein Maria, wouldn’t you like to join me in my room later, once the children are asleep? We can have a little chat—you’ll want to know how things run around here.”
Maria had expected her first evening to end in solitary contemplation, beads slipping through her fingers as she braced for the days ahead. Instead, she found herself blinking in surprise at the housekeeper’s offer and unable to refuse despite her exhaustion.
Frau Schmidt had stricken her from the beginning as a warm and sincere person, and her invitation and reception confirmed to Maria that this was not a case of deceiving first impressions. She had prepared a sort of Kränzchen, a cozy chat accompanied by hot drinks and biscuits, and then she had welcomed her warmly to the house.
After a few perfunctory questions about her arrivals and her first impressions of the house, Frau Schmidt told her to always come to her for any question, that she would always be glad to answer and help.
Maria, never one to beat around the bush, seized the chance to go straight to the point. “I understand that the Captain lost his wife… the Mother Abbess said… four years ago?”
“That is correct, my dear.”
“And… would it be possible… that this entire discipline and whistle thing has begun after he lost his wife?”
“You are once again correct, my dear.”
“And I am sure you do not approve.”
Frau Schmidt sighed. “It is not for the staff to question the master of the house. The Captain is a fair master. People line up to work here every time there is a vacancy. How he manages his children is none of our business, considering that he does love them, beneath all of that cold and distant exterior.”
Maria’s face contorted in scepticism. She regretted immediately her reaction, noticing Frau Schmidt’s shock tinged by sadness in response. But the housekeeper was not deterred.
“I understand you find it hard to believe, and I understand you are a woman with strong opinions. But there is so much you don’t know. Maybe it is best that I tell you the whole story, my dear. After all, you will have a very important role, and it is essential that you understand the Captain and the children.”
“I am so sorry, Frau Schmidt. I should abstain from judgment. It is one of the teachings of the Gospel, after all. But I felt so bad for the children…”
“I know, my dear. I have already heard from one of the maids that you have been championing them at dinner, and I have noticed their attitude. This is why I invited you tonight.”
“It was simply what had to be done.”
“You are the first governess to do so. All others allied with what they saw as their employer, and obeyed him. You are the first one choosing the children.”
“Forgive me for saying it, Frau Schmidt, but a few instants ago you told me that the staff should not criticise the master…”
“Yes, but we can still have opinions, and choose sides when needed. I understand these intricacies need to be learned, but I am sure you will manage them. But now, back to my task, telling you the entire Captain’s story.
Captain von Trapp was a young and bright naval officer at the end of the first decade of the century, graduated from the Naval Academy at Fiume, and a knight. He understood immediately the importance of the submarine in warfare, and this kept him stationed in the very same city in Istria, where the newly invented torpedoes were built. He became friends with the owners of the factory, and was given command of one of the first submarines in the Austrian Navy.
The young sister of the factory owners, and granddaughter of the inventor of the torpedo, was called to christen the Captain’s submarine; thus, the two were introduced, and fell in love almost immediately. She was beautiful, a charming and calm character, and fabulously wealthy; a polyglot like the Captain, born on the sea like him. It was like a fairytale. They married before long, and moved to Pola, where the Austrian submarine base was located, in a villa near the seaside. Children started arriving, and the young family seemed to come right out of a novel.
Alas, the war broke out. Soon, the poor young lady had to leave Pola with the first three children, as did all civilians, and she went to stay at her mother’s estate in Zell am See.
The Captain, as you might have heard, was a hero: he performed miracles with experimental submarines, and was pluri-decorated. Think, Fräulein: he was decorated by the Emperor Franz Joseph, by Emperor Karl, and more recently, by the Republic. That’s how he got his barony.
The family continued to grow, and the Captain’s career took off.
Alas, as you can imagine, the defeat and the end of the Monarchy took away his beloved Navy and sea. Luckily, he had his beloved wife and five children to come home to and to live for, despite the loss; so, the family enjoyed a few other years of happiness, until a scarlet fever epidemic swept Klosterneuburg, where they were living. The children got ill, the mother got infected while assisting them and did not survive. That was in February 1922, shortly after Elisabeth’s —Liesl’s— birthday.
The man you see now is just a shadow of the man he used to be, torn apart by grief. He is always travelling, stopping rarely by: he has shares in several shipping, sailing, and engineering companies and he cooperates with them when his expertise is relevant; he visits friends and family; and uses his travels and his brand of discipline as an excuse to keep his distance from those poor little dears, just because he doesn’t want to be reminded of her, of their life before his loss, of their happiness. Those tricks the children play on governesses to have them resign or be laid out? Their escamotage to have their father come home more often, and pay more attention to them.
But he does love them, Fräulein. He always wants to be informed about everything; he always comes home immediately when one is ill, and takes care of the child himself.”
Maria’s guilt crept up slowly, spreading like ink on paper. She had spent the entire day scorning a man she did not know, a man who had once been full of life and love. A man whose world had crumbled around him. Her next Confession would be a blood bath.
On the other hand, it was also true that, despite all, the Captain was clearly a rich man, and the children looked adorable (penchant for tricks aside—but she now knew the reason for them): so, why not simply try to enjoy life? She had to make her own way as an orphan without money, for example. So many people every day had to face grief without all this material comfort.
Then again, she had never been in love. She remembered her mother’s love; she had felt affection for friends and for some of the sisters at the Abbey; she had had platonic crushes for a few professors, but that was all.
This man had been in love with the sea, the Navy, and the mother of his children.
Matthew 7:1 said clearly “Judge not, that you be not judged.”. But she had.
Frau Schmidt took her long, pondering silence as an authorisation to add a last bit of information.
“His family has long advised him to consider remarrying, so that the children might have a mother again. As of late, he has often been visiting or meeting Baroness Elsa von Schräder, a rich and noble socialite and widow. And there are whispers that an engagement might be imminent. But then again, the Captain is a difficult man to predict.”
Maria knew then what her mission was: helping the children, and prepare them for a new mother.
Unknowingly to Maria and Frau Schmidt, the children were holding their own meeting in Liesl’s room
Louisa brilliantly observed: “She questioned Father’s methods.”
Brigitta pressed on, “She protected us from father’s wrath.”
“But she made us feel guilty!” Kurt had felt it particularly (not as much as Maria had felt that pinecone he had so willingly put on the chair, though).
“She is still a governess, Kurt,” Liesl explained. “You cannot expect her not to address discipline ever.”
Friedrich concluded: “She is different.”
Martha and Gretl agreed: “We like her.”
The verdict? They’d keep an eye on her. For now.
Notes:
The conversation about Stiegl and Ottakringer beer is a real conversation I had in Vienna.
I am setting up Maria and Georg to be very different from their real-life counterpart.
The hike of the ridge (which I thought to be one single mount when I first moved here) is something I really attempted (thinking it would take me no longer than 2-3 hours). Nice hike... only, it took me a good part of a day! :-)
Chapter 3: Midnight is where the day begins (Maria’s first love)
Summary:
Already uncharted territory here (meaning the chapter's plot and events are not derived from film canon or real story, though some background details are retained).
We accompany Maria through her first days at Villa Trapp. She finds new friends and allies in the staff, continues disliking the Captain immensely, and - last but not least - she bonds with the children, and her heart will never be the same again.
Some comedy, lots of narration, and the first tear-jerker.
Notes:
Chapter title from "Lemon" by U2 + self-explicatory addition.
Chapter Text
Used to the Abbey’s liturgy of the hours, Maria woke up as dawn wrestled with night, faint light creeping through her curtains.
It was a Sunday, so she guessed the family would not get up particularly early either, although it probably depended on the hour of the Holy Mass in Aigen. Did the family attend Mass on Sunday? She hoped so!
She decided to prepare herself for the day, and to go down to walk a little, get acquainted with the extensive garden the Captain had mentioned.
Downstairs, the hall loomed—oak banister gleaming (that grand stair!), flag still whispering sea.
Upon reaching the hall, she panicked a little. Will I be able to open the heavy wooden door? Is there a key?
Locked. She should have known. A house full of children; doors could not be simple to open.
She briefly considered climbing down a window, then decided that beginning her first morning in the house with the wrong foot, in case a literal wrong foot—or hand—caused her to fall, was not what would help her accomplish her divine mission.
If only she had known that the children would have gladly taught her how to climb up and down unnoticed…
Grand houses, however, had back ways: kitchen doors, servants’ tricks. She tiptoed, skirting vases, and sniffed out the kitchen—door ajar, tobacco curling from outside. Voices hummed—low, lively.
“Good morning,” she announced. “I am Fräulein Maria, the governess. I hope I am not disturbing… I just would like to pass through and explore the garden.”
“Stay a bit, Fräulein!” chirped a petite maid—yesterday’s dinner flitter—eyes bright.
She continued. “We’re staff! Betty here… and you’re welcome as rain.”
“Come, let’s chat,” boomed a tall, round woman, arms wide like dough. The group shuffled, making space for her, smoke swirling.
“Smoke?” Betty offered, cigarette poised.
“Oh, thank you, but no,” Maria dodged: she had never been a fan of smoking.
“Bettina—Betty to all,” the petite one grinned. “Pleasure!”
A second maid—sharp-faced—piped, “Why Betty, not Tina?”
“Oh, Helga, you minx! Fine! I’m mad for cinema, jazz, Schlager, glamour. Betty’s my Hollywood name, see?”
Maria was happy to find something in common with the friendly maid. “Oh, I adore jazz, but I also listen to classical, folk, and religious music!”
Betty winked. “Abbey lass—bound to. Schlager’s my beat. Anton hums it dreadful.”
“Anton?” Maria asked.
“Fiancé, works Rajsigl chocolate in Grödig,” Betty beamed. “Helps here: waiter, gardener. You know, when factory’s quiet. We’re saving for the wedding, then Tyrol, his village. Land, cows—the lot.”
“Tyrol!” Maria’s heart jumped. “I’m Tyrolean! I lost my parents young, was shipped to Vienna at ten, to my guardian. Still feel it… mountains in my bones.”
“Anton’s tales—same!” Betty laughed. “Vienna, then?”
“Secondary school, then State Teachers’ College of Progressive Education. Summers, I umpired tennis, waitressed… scraped for cinema and free concerts when I could.”
“No posh governess, eh?” Resi—the round cook—rumbled, stirring an imaginary pot.
“Orphan grit,” Maria grinned. “Scholarship got me through.”
The group swapped looks—nods, sly smiles. “Knew it,” Betty said. “You’re our sort. And thanks for treating the children differently than the usual posh Fräulein!”
Resi waved a floury hand. “Cook—Resi. Feeding those seven dear ones.”
Then, one by one, all of them introduced themselves: Helga, “Maid, duster-in-chief.” Trudi, “Maid too, linen’s mine.” Hans—friendly face, grey, grizzled—straightened: “Gardener, groundskeeper, handyman. Served on his U-boat.” A palm-down salute flicked, gone quick.
Maria warmed: open faces, no airs. Although Hans must have heard of my botched salute, she thought, and stifled a giggle.
She was eager to know more about their relationship with the Captain, but she imagined that only time spent in the house could answer her. As Frau Schmidt had admitted, the staff’s job was not to discuss the master’s decision about his children.
“Where’s Franz?” she blurted. The first face from yesterday was missing.
A hush—Resi coughed, Hans glanced off. “Franz… he’s not the chatty sort,” Betty muttered, voice dipping, a bit evasively.
The family did attend Mass that morning. Maria was presented with the endearing sight of children all in impeccable, tailor-made, good quality Tracht—the boys in Lederhosen, the girls in Dirndl—, and the father again in a Trachtenanzug (luckily. She would have found the idea of the Captain in Lederhosen hilarious).
Maria took her chance to say something sweet to the children and to implicitly criticise the father by exclaiming, “Oh, how adorable you all are in your Trachten!”
They all thanked her for the compliment, a little embarrassed. Martha endearingly added, “Do you have a Dirndl, too?”
“I used to have one, but when I entered the Abbey, I had to give all of my clothes to the poor.”
Martha turned to her father without hesitation. “Father, can you buy Fräulein Maria a new Dirndl?”
The Captain didn’t miss a beat. “Of course, Martha.”
Maria blinked. “Oh, but I don’t need—”
“Fräulein,” he cut in smoothly, “just as I ensure my children are properly dressed, so too must their governess present the right image. You will receive materials to sew your own dresses, but you’ll also have a full Tracht for formal occasions. A qualitative Dirndl in the local style.”
Maria opened her mouth—to protest, perhaps, or to demand why he had any say in what she wore—but she snapped it shut. What would be the point? This was a man who issued decrees. And he’d framed it so politely, as though it were a generous offer instead of a command. Ridiculous.
At Mass, Maria noticed that the older children did take the Eucharist, but the father did not. Was he still too angry at God for what had happened? Or did he simply no longer believe?
The Captain, in turn, observed Maria—only briefly, but long enough to see her remain in her pew as well. Interesting. A devout postulant like her must hold herself to rigid standards of penance. Some trivial sin keeping her away, no doubt.
If Maria had been correct in reading his grief, the Captain, in turn, had no idea that he had been the object of her unholy wrath for the better part of a day. Or that she was still wrestling with it now. To forgive? To find Christian pity in her heart? To focus on the children and simply endure him (actually, ignore him)?
After lunch, the Captain had planned a walk around the gardens and Aigen, to combine the constant need for occupation he seemed to envision for the family, her need to get acquainted with her surroundings, and a typical Sunday pastime.
He led them all through the gardens first, all the time reminding the children not to run or get their clothes dirty and torn, and to always behave with the utmost composure. He occasionally added the odd observation about a tree or plant, or piece of information about the sights and the streets.
Not exactly the proper way to approach a walk, Maria thought. Then again, if the children had to choose between wearing sailor suits, elegant clothing, or tailored Trachten, and no play clothes… well, she would be worried too.
Martha and Gretl were placed right in front of them, and they all closed the line. She occasionally held their hands, which the two girls accepted willingly with a smile.
As the walk stretched on, Maria noticed patterns among the children.
Kurt kept shifting his weight, barely restraining the urge to run ahead. Louisa walked just a little too fast, just enough to make their father remind her—again—not to outpace the others. And Brigitta… Brigitta was watching her. Quietly, intensely. Measuring her reaction to every stiff rule, every command.
To liven up the walk a little bit, Maria commented on the mountains she could see. “This is a nice view of the Untersberg, although I like it seen from the other side too, near the Saalach, near Wals. Have you ever been there in one of your walks?”
“No, Fräulein Maria”, the ensemble of the children answered. The Captain added, “The governesses are usually not paid to go on hikes with children, Fräulein,” with his usual moralising tone.
Brigitta, curious, asked, “Have you?”
“Oh yes, both around Wals and on the Untersberg, hiking!”
Friedrich and Kurt looked at each other. “Wow, that would be amazing!”
Their father shot a menacing look at them. Maria felt her unchristian feeling of hostility towards him reemerge, but she also considered the matter from a more practical point of view. A walk around Salzburg was easily arranged as soon as the father was away (and Frau Schmidt had told her to expect his absences to be frequent, and long); the Untersberg was a dangerous mountain.
“The Untersberg, on both the Austrian and Berchtesgaden sides, is generally only for expert adult hikers. This is not a place for children. There is only one path that I wouldn't call dangerous, the Reitsteig, but even there we’d have to be careful. But who knows? Maybe in a few years you will climb the Untersberg from Berchtesgaden to Glanegg, over the Berchtesgadener Hochthron!”
The lure of the Untersberg now most likely a solved matter, she decided to keep her comments to a more neutral, to avoid other comments by the Captain. “The Watzmann! What a fascinating mountain!” and “There is still much snow on the mountains!”.
Definitely the most awful attempt at a conversation ever.
Captain Spoilsport!
Back from the stroll, the Captain announced: “As it’s Sunday, and we don’t want to go against Sunday rest, we will all retire in our rooms to read. Fräulein, you will supervise all of the children in turn.”
It sounded like a nice plan, to respect the Sunday rest and maybe to get to know the children better, until Maria discovered that the older children were to be separated from the younger, who were in what once would have been called the nursery, or something like that.
As usual when it came to the Captain’s ideas, she was horrified, and she had lost count of the times she had to pray the Lord for instant strength and patience every time that man either opened his mouth or managed to cast a shadow on the matters at hand.
Liesl tried to be helpful, though. “It is a common habit in aristocratic families. The idea behind it is that younger children need more supervision, and therefore a dedicated nanny. Older children need their own tutors — in the past, the boys had to prepare for university or a career, and the girls for finishing schools, society, marriage, you know.”
“But this rigid enforcement of it?”
The children all shrugged.
“So, I should go around between rooms and check on you periodically?”
“Yes, and you should sit mainly with the younger children. If Martha and Gretl were younger still, there would be a nanny for them, of course.”
“And… who is going to know if we all sit together?”
“Someone might check on us or seek us.”
Maria didn’t care. She had enough. “Children, I hereby declare that we are going to sit all together. Nothing bad will happen, the world will still stand. Where could we gather?”
Liesl suggested: “I do have a sitting room. We can all convene there, I think we should all fit” and Maria wondered why the children exchanged knowing looks.
And so, they all went to Liesl’s. Friedrich asked Maria, “Shouldn’t you be the one to enforce discipline, Fräulein?”
“Well, Friedrich, if you start throwing books at your siblings, I will definitely have something to say. But if our task is just reading, I see no reason to keep to outdated and impractical rules. See, if you really started throwing books at someone while I was in the nursery, I would only be able to intervene when it’s too late, or not at all,” Maria grinned satisfactorily.
Kurt looked at her and said, “Fräulein Maria, you say some really weird things sometimes, but you are fun!”
The children all joined him in laughter, and so did Maria. With that, everyone picked up their books and took their place—Maria, challenging an authority that wasn’t even there, on the floor, soon followed by the youngest girls.
Maria was curious about the chosen activities. Kurt and Friedrich were in the middle of some books about the last war, probably out of some (in Maria’s opinion misplaced) admiration for their father. Liesl was reading a novel in English called “Pride and Prejudice”, and Maria felt a sudden admiration for the girl. “Do you read entire novels in English? Liesl, that’s amazing!”
“Our mother was half English, our aunt Connie is Irish. Louisa, Friedrich, and I were born in Pola, Istria. We grew up speaking English and Italian along with German. Father’s Italian and English are very good too; he confessed he is a little less proficient in Croatian and Slovenian, and also understands a few words in other languages of the former Empire. Oh, and he obviously speaks French,” she recited with admiration.
Maria was humbled. “Wow! I hope I can at least help you with French, Latin, and Greek!”
“You can, and you will, Fräulein Maria. Our teachers are very demanding,” Liesl explained, and all the children nodded.
Brigitta continued, “We younger children are not as good as them in foreign languages, since we had less time to practice.”
Louisa completed: “Six months after our mother died, we moved to this house with Father, and our occasions to practice other languages have become rarer. Only when we visit our relatives do we get to brush up our skills.”
Another victim of the family’s sad story. In this case, maybe the Captain had less responsibility, although if the man stayed home longer and talked more with the children, maybe they could keep practising English and Italian?
Liesl also added: “You know, Fräulein Maria, this novel is rather intriguing, and contains a rather witty kind of humour that reminds me of some of the barbs you keep throwing these days… and it is available in German! Stolz und Vorurteil, it’s called. As soon as I am finished, I will tell you exactly if it’s worth it. In England, it’s definitely popular!”
Louisa was reading the second volume of “Heidi” by Johanna Spyri. Maria was worried that the story of an orphan surrounded by diseases was not probably the right reading material for these children, but addressing these topics seemed too premature. Although, they had freely mentioned their mother and her death… maybe they had accepted what had happened, and the issue lay only with the father?
Martha, with a book of stories for young children, and Gretl, armed with a few sheets of paper to draw, drew her attention and started asking her questions.
“What languages do you speak, Fräulein Maria?”
“French, and, well, some sentences in Italian and English, then a few words in Hungarian and Czechoslovak I used to hear in Vienna. I am afraid nothing that compares to you.”
Brigitta wanted to know, “Where are you from? Were you born here in Salzburg?”
“Oh, no. I am from Tyrol. Well, actually I was born on a train from Tyrol to Vienna, and was registered as born in Vienna, when my mother got off the train.” The kids exploded in another of their belly laughs. “But my family was living in Tyrol, and so that’s where I was raised. Unfortunately, my mother died when I was five, and my father died too, when I was ten. I was then sent to my guardian, an uncle in Vienna. I travelled across Austria to go hiking, but I was still living in Vienna when I decided to join Nonnberg. I have hiked enough in the neighbourhood to know my way around here, though.”
As she mentioned being an orphan, the children’s mood changed. Gone was the relaxed openness with which they were interacting with her, replaced by a well-disguised sadness.
Friedrich observed: “So, you are an orphan too. You lost both parents, though. At least we still have Father.”
Louisa was not as diplomatic as her brother. “Oh, yes, the few days in a week or a month we see him, we are certainly grateful to have him talk about discipline and school, or ignore us.”
Liesl defended him: “Lou, you remember how he took Mamá’s death. You remember how he really is.”
“Well, I haven’t seen that man in years, Liesl. And don’t give me that holier-than-you attitude: you have always collaborated at our sabotage of the other governesses, and you agree that playing tricks and getting in trouble is how we can get his attention!”
Maria felt very guilty. “Children, children, please stop! I shouldn’t have said a word. I am sorry I ruined your Sunday…”
Friedrich defended her: “You haven’t ruined anything, Fräulein Maria. We would be reading by ourselves without you; instead, we are all sitting together, talking to someone who is listening.”
“I am so sorry that your father is so distant; maybe together we can find a way to have him pay attention, you know, without putting fauna or flora or who knows what else in my pockets or on my chair.” An embarrassed smile accompanied her words.
Kurt asked: “Do you promise?”
“I do! I will definitely think of something. You see, I have already subverted your strict separation,” and she winked.
Kurt continued. “Will you let us run outside?”
“As soon as I can get you play clothes, I will. I can also teach you sports and games.”
Friedrich observed: “It would be nice not being the only ones not good at those among our friends, just because we never get to practice.”
In all of this, Martha and Gretl were waiting for their turn to talk. When they did talk, they said a lot.
Martha went first. “Do you remember your mother, Fräulein Maria?”
Oh, God, please help me. “I do.” She swallowed. What would happen now?
Gretl said: “I do not remember her at all.” And Martha agreed, “Neither do I.”
Maria felt a punch in her stomach.
She wanted to answer immediately. But… how?
“Oh, I am so, so sorry, my dear girls,” she managed at last, her voice soft, her throat tight.
Liesl straightened, already bracing herself.
Then Gretl launched into her arms. “Since you too haven’t received a hug from your mother in a long time, here is my hug!”
Maria couldn’t stop the tears if she tried.
And Martha followed, “And mine!”
She hugged them both, first singularly, then together, and let a few tears loose, kissing those two precious girls on the crown of their heads.
After she had let the girls a little loose, Brigitta shyly asked: “Can I get a hug, too, please” to which Kurt added, “and I? Please?”.
“Of course, dears!” and she proceeded to hug them too.
The three older siblings looked onto the scene, clearly not knowing what to do or say. Maria correctly interpreted their feelings. “You know, there is no age limit for hugs, if you feel like you want or need one.”
Surprisingly, Friedrich beat Louisa on it, so probably behind that apparent air of reserve there was a tender heart (or maybe Louisa wanted to check whether she would really hug the older ones instead of making fun of them?). Liesl was last, and Maria felt in her hug how a load had been lifted from her shoulders: she must have been playing surrogate mother, whereas she was an equally orphaned and bereaved girl.
After enough proximity, sincere affection, and a few tears, Maria noticed the need to restore a more cheerful mood before dinner.
Maria wiped at her eyes, gently squeezing Gretl’s hand. If she let herself drown in sorrow, they would too.
“You know,” she said, voice warm, forcing a little brightness, “when I’m sad, I like thinking about my favourite things!”
The day after, Maria experienced the first time she had to send the children to school. Frau Schmidt still assisted her, which was essential because —as she quickly discovered—sending five children to school without casualties was a task worthy of an Imperial and Royal battle plan. Especially when their father had such strict requirements of elegance. The boys had the shorter route, to the Borromäum in Parsch, but the girls were going to the Ursulinen in the Old Town, so time loss was not an option.
“Stockings straight, Martha! Kurt, put that comb down, your hair is as good as it’s going to get! Liesl, please stop looking at me like you’re evaluating my competence. I swear I’ll get better at this!”
They made it out the door, miraculously on time. Maria resisted the urge to throw herself onto the nearest chaise lounge in victory. Maybe tomorrow she wouldn’t need Frau Schmidt.
Maybe.
She then had a meeting with the Captain about Martha’s program and his ideas for Gretl—namely, having her slowly learn how to write. She could already read a little, thanks to her having six older siblings who constantly showed her things, so why not?
Martha was a proper pupil: she listened, and did what she was told to. Gretl seemed to be interested in writing; however, when she wanted a pause, she knew how to put her sweet face into use. So, Maria sometimes had to be a little firmer. Sometimes, however, she recognised a five-year-old’s need to get up and do something else, like a turn around the room, or some playing with her dolls, or some drawing.
A proper governess would have probably taught the girls indoors all the time, mostly in silence. Maria, however, was not a proper governess. She was a teacher, a hiker, a woman of action—and, most importantly, a woman who did not want to be scolded by Captain Spoilsport.
So, she carefully picked a secluded corner of the garden for what would from that day onwards be known as Gretl and Martha’s top-secret daily running sessions. If she was caught, she’d plead ignorance or divine inspiration. If the girls got dirty… she’d improvise. Somehow.
At the end of the lesson, as the older children entered the house, their voice filling the house again, Gretl and Martha wrapped their arms around her, tight, warm, trusting, thanking her for the day.
Maria froze. The sensation was… unexpected. A warmth blooming deep in her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs.
Oh, no.
No, no, no, this wasn’t the plan!
She had come here to do a job on behalf of the Lord. To teach. To guide. To endure the father and pray for deliverance.
Instead, she had gone and fallen in love with these children.
Chapter 4: The Chronicles of Villa Trapp: the Curtains, the Spoilsport, and the Guitar
Summary:
The clash between Maria's rebellious spirit and Captain von Trapp's rigid control takes new turns as she witnesses his hidden depths. Liesl's romantic awakening and her memories of their mother add emotional complexity to the household. Meanwhile, Maria remains delightfully unaware of a (still one-sided) growing fascination, and the world outside the villa hints at dangerous changes. (Creative use of a few film elements, non-canon plot, political undertones.)
Notes:
Title is a tribute to C. S. Lewis’s "Narnia."
Frankie and Bobby are Agathe's brothers (Frank and Robert from the prologue).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As Frau Schmidt had heralded, the Captain soon announced the first of many journeys, for the joy of Maria who felt she would soon have the opportunity to lay the foundations for her revolution. A pity she had no Ottakringer beer at hand to cheer: she doubted the Captain’s cellar featured the beer that bore the name of one of the hot points of the 1918 Viennese revolution, and of a working-class district. Besides, she still intended to abstain from alcohol: a little bit of penance; a little bit of keeping to her intention of taking vows.
The announcement came at dinner, the usual boring dinner with very few conversations and everyone dressed to the nines. She was finally sporting the first of her new dresses, one she had sewn with the materials she got: a nice blue dress that vaguely imitated the family’s dinner attire. The Captain's eyes fixed on her, in a way that made Maria instinctively uncomfortable. Then, he announced he was going to check on a project one of his shipping companies was working on, and would be away a few days.
“I trust you to manage the children in my absence, Fräulein Maria. These two days have seen no incident, and it seems to me like the children have been learning and doing their homework without fussing too much. I am very impressed: it hadn’t happened in a very long time. Then again, you are the talk of the town, and it seems like it wasn’t just made-up tales.”
Before she could utter the usual perfunctory reply accompanied by one of her fake smiles, Friedrich cut in, “How long are you going to be away precisely?”
“I don’t know, Friedrich. It depends on what I need to do.”
“Is it about those ships for the Danube, Father? Will you tell us more about them when you are back?”
“I will be glad to tell you all about it at dinner. Maybe Fräulein Maria will be able to integrate my tales with some of her… innovative ideas to review some geography and history?”
What was that?
The Captain volunteering for a conversation with the children? All right, he said ‘at dinner’, so that’s when he is forced to face them. However… wow!
“Fräulein, did I say something wrong?”
“Oh, no, no, it’s just…” Think, Maria! “I usually… I did not expect you to understand my method so… quickly!”
“I have been documenting myself, Fräulein. I did entrust my children to you, I obviously didn’t do it lightly,” he replied with his elegant, velvety tone, no sarcasm.
“Well, it is a pleasant surprise, Captain! I wish you godspeed, and look forward to our evening exchange about the Danube upon your return!”
After dinner, as she was preparing for bed, Frau Schmidt knocked on her door, and announced her curtains would be changed in the next days. Upon her “But why? These are fine,” Frau Schmidt simply shrugged and uttered a knowing “Well, the Captain has demanded that they be changed.”
What a weird evening!
Well, it was not too bad. She had planned on trying to use some scraps from her own materials to start making play clothes for the children, and then looking for a solution to get her hands on further material (the Lord would have provided, of course).
Now she had some very resistant and colourful curtains to use!
She went back to her preparation, and started her prayers.
As the last days had been a little warmer than the average temperature for the period, while she was praying, a thunder boomed, and soon rain started falling. The first thunderstorm of the season!
The weirdness of the evening was apparently not over, because—lo and behold! — who appeared on her balcony other than Liesl, evidently after… climbing up?
Just before Liesl tried to knock (or to open the door-window?), she opened and whispered “Liesl! Come inside immediately,” the tone rather worried, the words as if it were a child playing outside and not a reasonably more mature sixteen-year-old standing on a balcony in the rain for unknown reasons.
“Oh, Fräulein Maria, please, don’t tell Father! I was outside strolling, and Franz must have locked the door earlier, or maybe I haven’t noticed the passing of time…”
Uhm.
“Liesl, you must have noticed these three days that I am not the kind of governess who runs to your father every time there is an issue, and that I am always open to talking things through.”
“Yes, Fräulein!”
“Which brings me to my first question. HOW did you get on my balcony?!
“Oh, we became very good at climbing to the governess’s room for our tricks a long time ago. Louisa can do it with a bucket full of spiders, or any other insect or animal or…”
“Liesl, spiders are arachnids, not insects. And… spiders? You know that some bite, right?”
“Oh, Louisa is passionate about all things biology, she must know what to do, I suppose.”
“Well, second question: why were you outside strolling? It’s mid-April, not June. Anything on your mind that worries you? Would you like to talk about it?”
A telling silence, and her reclined head, told her that she had partly guessed.
“Third question: how did you not notice that a thunderstorm was coming? Lost in your thoughts?”
Another telling silence.
“OK, Liesl. Go to my bathroom, clean up a little bit, put your dress to soak in my bathtub… oh, dear, your elegant dinner attire! Put on my spare nightgown, and then come and we will talk about it.”
Liesl obeyed, and Maria was left to finish her prayers.
As she was trying to guess what Liesl was worried about (school? Thoughts about her mother or father?), her door slammed open, and there came Martha and Gretl, terrified by the thunderstorm.
What was she to do?
“Come on, hop into my bed.”
The scared girls asked, “Why do they do that?”
“Well, the lightning says something to the thunder, and the thunder answers back,” she improvised. The girls seemed content, so she kept talking to them, cheering them up, talking about her favourite things, and cuddling.
Liesl came then out of the bathroom, hair dry-towelled, her gown on. The girls were surprised, of course.
“Liesl, what are you doing here?”
“Are you scared of the thunderstorm too?”
“No, Liesl was locked out while taking an after-dinner stroll, and then she climbed up.”
The girls giggled, and Maria told Liesl, “We’ll talk tomorrow,” before sending her to her room.
The following day, Maria woke up with two precious charges in her bed, a lot of ideas and a full-fledged optimism, despite Friedrich and Kurt engaging in a battle with books flying through the air: apparently, Kurt had briefly considered running to the new, sweet governess during the thunderstorm, and Friedrich had mocked him for it. To top it all, Brigitta and Louisa made themselves helpful (in their own eyes) by hitting them with pillows.
It was a nice occasion to teach that everybody has feelings, and there was nothing wrong with it, and that one should talk instead of hitting other people or shouting.
She started to feel like falling into a routine: breakfast and preparation for school, then taking care of the two girls, finally free to do as she seemed fit, without Captain Spoilsport looming.
When the older children came back from school, it was time to talk to Liesl, though. For some reason, the girl seemed rather bashful.
“Liesl, if it is something about your mother, or your father, you can open up to me if it might help you. Or you can just tell me that it’s about them, and that you don’t feel comfortable talking to me about that in detail, and I will understand. I am just worried about you being out and so deep in your thoughts that you don’t notice a thunderstorm coming and Franz locking the door.”
Liesl surprisingly didn’t take the coward’s way out.
“Oh, Fräulein Maria, we can talk about Mother and Father, of course. We would all love to talk more about… well, what happened. But this isn’t about them… well, one might say that it has something to do with them…”
“Oh?”
“Well… you see… I was out strolling… with someone. A young man I often meet on my way to school and back…”
Jessas, Maria und Josef!
Another month without Communion, this time for saying the name of the Lord in vain. The Lord was clearly testing her in all possible ways with this family.
If there was a topic she had nothing meaningful to contribute about, it was love between a man and a woman. She had never, ever, ever fallen in love. Once, a boy in Tyrol had kissed her lips and declared he would marry her at eighteen. In secondary school, she was a gangly tomboy: boys weren't attracted to her, and she was far more interested in acting like one than in attracting one. At college, she had developed a few platonic admirations for professors. Then, a single young man had once kissed her lips, misinterpreting her friendliness as romantic interest. All these had been simple contacts of lips to lips, nothing special like the grand romances in novels.
“…he works for the post office, you know. Deliveries. He is eighteen, earns his own money, has his head screwed on, and is very romantic.”
Love between classes. Now she would have to read that Pride and Prejudice novel to see if that was where she took her ideas from. The Captain would probably torpedo both the boy and the poor governess self if he found out, not necessarily in this order.
On the other hand, the aristocratic Captain would really deserve to have a daughter marrying a postman. His nervous breakdown would be glorious to witness!
Alas, there was a relevant problem: preventing Liesl from doing stupid things. Innocent and inexperienced might the girl be, but Maria was a teacher, and she had been in a convent that also hosted women of all ages left alone after “ruin”. She knew it could happen to anyone, and fast.
Sighing loudly, she started to ask a few questions to have Liesl reveal as much as possible without giving her the impression that she wanted to interrogate her too intensely (or betray her).
“Liesl, were you out strolling with this boy? Is that all?”
Liesl shook her head.
“Did he kiss you?”
An instant of hesitation, and then, “Yes! He kissed me for the first time this evening!”
Oh, so that must be why she didn’t notice the upcoming storm.
“So, that’s what you do with this boy? You talk to him, you walk together, and he kissed you, right?”
Liesl nodded, a smile plastered on her face.
“And you said that it has something to do with your parents, because…”
“Oh, my parents met perchance, and they very soon noticed they were falling in love. And that’s what happened with Rolf, too!”
Oh, splendid. Just what I needed—Liesl forming life plans based most likely on an English novel, with postman Rolf whatever-his-surname-is. What’s next? Louisa deciding she wants to study spiders full-time? Brigitta running off to become a scandalous actress? “Oh, how… romantic! However, Liesl, you are only sixteen. You have two more years of school, and you have all the time in this world to decide what you want to do with your life. I am twenty-two and even I am not sure if I will take my vows or not.”
“Have you ever been in love, Fräulein Maria?”
“I am afraid not, Liesl. But, Liesl, promise me one thing: that you are not going to do anything stupid. It is all right if you talk to this boy, to get to know him, if you walk with him, if he kisses you, but that is all I want to hear from you.” She hoped she hadn’t somehow indirectly touched a topic she certainly didn’t want to hear from her charges at such a young age. “Can you promise me that?”
“You are not going to tell Father?”
“Never.” Unless it’s because I want to cause him a heart attack, but then, him knowing would not be a problem anymore, would it? “It is just something that young people usually go through…”
“Fräulein Maria, you are young, too!”
“But I don’t think that is the path I will be going. Anyway, neither I nor your father will always be guarding you, so these things are bound to happen — walking and kissing, I mean. I am making the choice to trust you. Just promise that you will never do anything more than that, and that you will talk to me any time you feel like something is changing.”
“Oh, thank you… THANK YOU, Fräulein Maria!” and she jumped in her arms.
Maria would have to pray more, and harder.
Liesl then reprised: “May I show something to you?”
“Of course!”
Liesl disappeared for a few minutes, and then came back with three elegantly framed photos.
It was a photo of her mother, “Her name was Agathe,” she commented, then a photo of her parents on their engagement, and one on their wedding day.
She was a beautiful woman wearing what high-society women wore daily at the beginning of the century and before the war. He was the same outwardly handsome man he was now, obviously slightly younger. The photos of the couple together had that extremely formal setting that was typical of pictures taken before the war, but she could recognise a barely hidden smile in the couple, in the way their mouths curved and in the spark in their eyes. She looked at his full-dress uniform, so intricated and formal, and that reminded her of that world she had seen disappear as an adolescent in Vienna.
They both looked very young, too.
“Do you often think about your mother, or about how your father used to be before his grief, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Yes, I do. I remember so clearly. I remember my mother talking about their love story during the war. Maybe she thought he would not come home, and wanted us to have some memories of him? Then, I remember Father admitting indirectly how he was affected by Mamá’s death, in an unguarded moment. That was the day we moved to Salzburg.
I am angry, sometimes, same as the others. But mostly, we miss him, or we miss those glimpses of tenderness we sometimes get, when he is proud of an achievement of us, or when he tends to us when we are ill.”
“Liesl, as I told you the other day, I am so incredibly sorry. You are nice children, and sweet; I hope we can find a way to bring your father back. That’s what I am here for: I think the Lord sent me to you for this reason.”
“Your hugs the other day were the most beautiful thing that happened to us since Mamá died, you know?”
“Any time you need to talk, or a hug, I will be here, for all of you. But… I am curious, how old were your parents when they got married? They look very young!”
“Oh, they married in 1909, not long after meeting and falling in love. Father was 22, and mother was 18.”
“They are… were… indeed young!”
Was that one of the reasons Liesl was already dreaming about a young postman? Yearning for love and a house full of warmth; idolising her parents, who had married so young? It probably was. All that, and probably just being a beautiful sixteen-year-old who read novels and who walked to school and back most of the time for all the boys of the town to see.
Maria that evening remembered Agathe too, the young woman taken away so soon, and asked to help her protect her daughter.
Yes, her daily routine at the villa was slowly but inexorably taking form.
Waking up, a little prayer unless the children were already up and about, preparations, breakfast, her day with the little girls, then with the other children in the evening and during a few afternoons, too, then bedtime. She was slowly getting to know them all: how they reacted to difficulties at school or to her calm but firm scolding when they were out of line; how many hugs or encouragements they needed; how often they needed to unleash their energy by running or walking. She started teaching them also a few games to play indoor.
She continued working on her own dresses, but prioritised working on the children’s play clothes as soon as the curtains were changed (and Frau Schmidt had gladly relinquished her the old ones). She sometimes took the girls with her and had them read or draw something as she sewed. Other times, she worked a little bit in the evening.
But days and evenings also bore other surprises: sometimes, she had a cozy chat with Frau Schmidt about the house, the children, and whatever was on her mind; sometimes, she joined the staff’s pause during the day or in the evening after the children’s bedtime, Betty always leading with some gossip about the stars, some funny tale from her or Anton’s life, or some fashion idea she got. Sometimes Hans passed by the villa and told them tales from the Navy: those were the best moments. Hans was older than the Captain, and he didn’t join through the golden gates of the Naval Academy and an aristocratic background; however, he had served long, and had tales from all around the world to share. He assured her, the newcomer, that “the Captain would have his own tales, too. Do you know that cadets complete their training by sailing around the world?”
Hans preferred not to talk too much about the Captain. “They are his tales to tell,” he argued. However, he once let one interesting detail slip. “Fräulein Maria, do you know that the Captain got his first medal by disobeying orders? He chased a French armoured cruiser throughout the Adriatic and sank it, loosening the hold of the Allies’ blockade!”
Maria tried to picture Captain Spoilsport disobeying orders (drawing on her own experience, of course. It was fun picturing the ogre father in her place). Was grief really so powerful that it could change a person? Or was the older Captain overcompensating his earlier hot-headedness by being strict now?
Time would tell, as she always thought before her bedtime, when it was time to reflect on the lessons learned, as per her agreement with the Mother Abbess, and to pray.
Soon, the first play clothes were ready, and running was not confined to either gravel paths or cared-for, dry grass patches anymore. The entire garden and the surroundings were suddenly their playground, and Maria was able to teach them sports, like volleyball (which she loved) and football, the easiest ones to start with even without proper equipment.
Friedrich told her that the Captain could play football, too. “Many of his men used to play it when on the ground. It was simple, he said, to spend some time kicking a ball and forgetting anything else. Father was actually good, from what I remember. He hasn’t played since Mamá died, as you can imagine.”
Yet another revelation about that man. Maria always felt divided: to appreciate what he once was and mourn that man? To get even angrier at a man throwing away his privilege and his gifts, and hurting his own children? She always prayed the Lord, the Virgin Mary, and the former Baroness von Trapp herself, whom she always called by her name, Agathe, so that they could help her understand what she had to do with that man to help those children, and she assumed all these revelations were meant to steer her the right way.
But which way?
It was already May when the Captain came back from his Danube-something-project expedition, to stay for a few days before departing again.
Maria instructed the children to hide their play clothes and their most rebellious feats. It was not the right time to attack yet. (Oh, heavens, was she already picking up military talk from Hans and, indirectly, the Captain?)
As promised, the Captain entertained at dinner table with a few reflections about Danube shipping and sailing. Maria, aware of her many faults, had previously decided to mentally play Strauss’s An der schönen, blauen Donau in her head to keep as calm as possible in case the Spoilsport tested her boundaries again.
“There is potential for both the industry, to transport materials and products, and tourism. Which means, we have to adapt the ships to both needs, and to be careful not to disrupt the beauty of the landscape and the peace in the country, or tourists might stay away. This is the huge challenge the company is facing. We are all working on it.”
Louisa asked, “Are Uncle Frankie and Bobby involved, too?”
“They have plenty enough on their hands with the factory in Fiume to be directly involved, but they have some shares. They invested some money, it means.” Then the Captain turned to Fräulein Maria: “What could we review together, starting from this, Fräulein Maria, since you’re so interested in progressive teaching?” His voice seemed to convey a friendly challenge.
“Well, children, what countries does the Danube touch?”
And the children recited, “Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Romania, Russia.”
“And what important Austrian cities are touched by the Danube?”
“Linz and Vienna.”
Friedrich added, “Passau, although in Germany, is near the border, and is crossed by three rivers: the Ilz, the Inn, and the Danube. And our Salzach flows into the Inn shortly after Burghausen, about 60 km before Passau. It is fascinating to think what one could do with a company like Father’s. Maybe shipping or sailing from Salzburg?”
Maria noticed the pride in the Captain’s eyes, and the satisfaction in Friedrich’s.
Liesl observed: “Navigating on a pleasure barge or ship would be so romantic!” Maria slightly shivered, and intensified the calming notes of Strauss’s waltz in her head.
Louisa added: “Imagine how nature must shift across all those countries! It must be fascinating!”
Kurt added his own two cents. “Father, may I be a captain on one of your ships?”
“If you do well in your studies, it might happen, son,” and his tone was not commanding, just… encouraging? This is the Captain the children need.
Brigitta replied, “Well, then I think I will be a captain sooner than Kurt!”
The Captain admonished her with a brisque tone, “Brigitta,” but was covered by Maria’s calmer and friendlier “Brigitta, everyone has his own pace. It is not a competition. Don’t mock your brother… especially if you don’t want to be mocked in return!”
Then Maria stepped up her game. “So, children, what could your father’s company transport? Let’s see if we can guess all there is to know.”
The children all together made a rather complete list, ranging from agricultural products, timber, salt, and manufactured goods. Even the little girls suggested that the river could be used for transporting ingredients for cakes. The Captain was impressed, and proud of his brood.
“And what other rivers play a similar role in Europe as the Danube?”
The older children suggested the Rhine, the Elbe, and the Vistula, then added the Austrian rivers Drava and Sava. Friedrich repeated how the Salzach had been relevant for transporting salt from Salzburg to the Danube via Passau.
Then Maria decided it was time to shine. “You see, transportation via water has shaped our history. Just as the beautiful marble for the astonishing Romanic Cathedral of Modena, in Italy travelled along rivers and canals from Verona, many other grand buildings across Europe relied on waterways for their construction. Think of the immense stones that built the equally astonishing but Gothic Cologne Cathedral, brought down the mighty Rhine. Or consider the cathedrals along the Loire and Seine in France, their very foundations often laid with materials transported by those great rivers. Even in England, the construction of many of their impressive cathedrals was facilitated by their navigable waterways. So, who knows, maybe your father,” and she turned to him, “may be soon be one of the smiths of history.”
The Captain was surprised, and as intrigued by her as he had been the day she had arrived and admired his flag first thing. As if the lack of reports of sabotage and the peaceful welcome home hadn’t been surprising enough… he would have to do a consistent donation to Nonnberg soon. He started staring at her intently, lazily noticing that she must have finished sewing her new dresses and that she looked more like the young and lovely woman she was, and less like a postulant.
Not that the ugly dress she arrived in had hidden that she was rather beautiful, but seeing her wearing what she would wear in her own secular life hit differently.
He took up the challenge. Tilting his head slightly, he pressed on. “So, you would say it is the architects and the movers —not the rulers—who shape history?”
“Well, the rulers might be movers too— think of Napoleon—but probably… yes. Rulers sometimes just disappear; cathedrals, churches, buildings, ways of communication… they remain, and influence every day’s life for generations. But this is probably more like university-level debate than a moment of enrichment for the children, I think. We don’t want to get them bored!”
The Captain simply nodded.
His staring was even more justified by her next move. “But Captain, I’m told you can contribute something, too. The children told me you are a polyglot. Can you tell us all the names of the river Danube in the languages you know?”
The Captain accepted the challenge: he put down his glass in his lordly manner, and listed, “Our Donau is called the Danube in English, il Danubio in Italian, Dunav in Croatian, and Donava in Slovenian—if I haven’t mixed the latter two up. I do not speak other languages well, but I am aware of the Hungarians calling it Duna.”
Maria wanted to argue with him about the Danube being “ours”, but Strauss’s calming notes reminded her of her resolution.
Liesl added, “We told Fräulein Maria you speak so many languages! What we probably haven’t told you, Fräulein, is that Father is Dalmatian, while we are Istrians.”
“Oh. Interesting. Well, you told me you were born in Pola, but I had no idea about,” and she turned to the Captain “your exact provenience.”
“I was born in Zara, in fact.”
“Oh. That’s… interesting. How the world has changed.” Probably not a good idea to remind him, though!
Louisa intervened, a grin on her face. “You don’t need to ask us where Istria and Zara are. We know very well they are in Italy, as we are all Italian citizens! The rest of Dalmatia is Yugoslav.”
“Really? Italian? All of you?”
Friedrich replied, “Yes, all of us, even M…” a kick under the table from Liesl stopped him, “all of us, as I said.”
Maria noted the kick thing for later to discuss with the children. Then, suddenly, in her mind, quintessentially Austrian Strauss was replaced by the first Italian melody she could think of, and it was Italian opera, Bellini in this case. Her brain had automatically selected the beautiful, moving cantabile Casta Diva, a prayer by an antique priestess for peace and calm, in an attempt to appease the Gauls’ anger, as it was foretold in the heavens that the enemy— Rome— would indeed fall in due time.
And so, while the Captain was still watching her intently, waiting for her to say something that would be, Maria was lost in her mind, focusing on the verses “Tempra o Diva, tempra tu de' cori ardenti, tempra ancor lo zelo audace, spargi in terra quella pace che regnar tu fai nel ciel.” [Temper, divine one, temper thou the burning hearts, temper also the audacious zeal, spread on earth that peace which thou makest reign in heaven.]
Only Brigitta and Liesl noted their father staring at Fräulein Maria again, and hoped it was approval.
The Captain did stay for a few days—more than she had wished for, actually—. Therefore, her attempts at normalising the children’s life had to be carefully hidden, or controlled.
She was happy to see how the children cooperated, understanding how critical it was not to have Fräulein Maria sent away prematurely.
Martha did ask something. “Isn’t it like telling lies, Fräulein Maria?”
“No one is lying, dear. We are just avoiding some undue stress to the household. Your father will be told in due time, believe me. A lie would be Gretl telling me she has completed her page of ‘Gs’ when she has been drawing me on a mountain instead, or Kurt swearing he hasn’t stolen any cake from the kitchen when Resi has told me he saw him running away, a piece missing from the tray. Right, children?” Her smile softened the blow.
Since Captain Spoilsport never addressed her friendship with the staff during their meetings, she supposed that was not a problem in his Weltanschauung. It was even nicer now, to meet with them and relax after their day. She even met the infamous Anton Schafferer, Betty’s fiancé, and the two of them animated one evening by exchanging Tyrolean tales (unknowingly overheard by the Captain, attracted by the louder tones and the general cheerfulness, and very curious). The staff kept trying to convince her to pick up smoking, but she always refused. More tempting were the offers of some Schnaps, but Maria was a woman with a holy mission, and so she stayed true to her vow never to touch alcohol again.
The staff also assisted in providing more scrapped material for a few more play clothes, and helped concealing the matter.
One afternoon, she was walking to one of the gates of the propriety to pick up some scraps brought by one of Trudi’s friends, when she passed Hans’s house and saw him chopping wood, bent forward, his back to the path, his rhythm relentless.
She passed and greeted him, “Servus, Hans. Good job!”
The Captain stopped in his tracks, axe still in his hands. Was Hans back home? He had sent him to buy a few things that were needed for the garden. He looked around, and did not see him.
Strange. And what is Fräulein Maria doing on the path? Well, the peace in the villa continued, so he had to trust her.
The Captain announced he was now leaving for Germany, then England, to meet with investors from his other companies. Therefore, the play clothes came out of hiding, Betty delivering it all after checking with Hans and Franz that the Captain was at the station.
With the summer holidays coming on, Maria knew she had to plan more activities, not to mention start perfectioning her revolution.
Her guitar had been abandoned in a corner of her huge room the day she had arrived, and she had noticed how music seemed to have been completely absent from the household. The children did have their music lessons at school, but that was all there was to say. No gramophone, no instruments.
Maria addressed the topic one evening. “Children, do you ever wish to listen to music, or to play an instrument, or to sing?”
As usual, Liesl filled in. “Father used to play the violin —the instrument he chose to study at the Naval Academy— and the guitar. They are hidden in the attic, with many other things, such as our photo albums and boxes, and a few of Mamá’s mementos.”
Friedrich added, “We sometimes sneak upstairs, pick up a photo to keep hidden in our room. In the past, we even looked at the albums together, when we were sure we wouldn’t get caught.”
Kurt continued, “We were thinking of bringing the photos downstairs and keeping them here. You would help us, right, Fräulein Maria?”
“Of course I will, but it’s too early to confront your father. We could try to hide them for a while. I doubt your father will search my room, so maybe all items that are too big not to be noticed in your rooms might be stored under my bed. I will tell Betty, Helga and Trudi, too. But… no records? No gramophone?”
“No, Fräulein Maria, not anymore,” sadly answered Louisa.
“Do you ever sing?”
“Only at school.”
“Well, I think it’s time to learn! When school is over, you have gotten your reports, and we have shown your father that the world has not collapsed on itself despite us playing, roaming around Salzburg, running, and singing, I think he might be able to understand what incredible children he was gifted with. And that he is better off sharing in their joy.”
The children were a little bit sceptical, but they also had no other options. “We will be on your side, if Father tries to send you away,” announced Friedrich.
“That is not going to help, Friedrich,” argued Louisa. “If Father gets angry, we will all be his target!”
“What is he going to do if we all rebel against him and refuse to comply? Call the police?” Kurt nodded to his brother at that one.
Maria had to pull the brake. “Whoa, Friedrich, calm down, my little rebel.” Look who is talking. “I hope it will not come to anything that harsh!” She laughed a little bit, and everyone followed. “He is your father still. You remember when he talked about his Danube project… he can be reasoned with.” Not even I believe I just said that, thought Maria.
“Well, Liesl had to kick Friedrich to stop him from mentioning Mamá. Father would not react well to that,” explained Louisa. “And we are bound to mention that we want things back to before her death.”
“We could simply just ask him to spend more time with us, and to be like he used to be,” interjected Brigitta.
“Do you think he would refuse to cuddle up with us, Fräulein Maria?” asked Martha.
Well, if he does, that is how I go to prison, and probably to Hell too, and willingly, and gladly, she thought. “He is your father, and you all told me how he can let out glimpses of how he was. Also, I am praying the Lord and your Mamá from above to assist us. We will manage!”
And so, the photos were brought down and stored as cleverly as possible, the children keeping their favourite things in their drawers, covered by other objects, Maria keeping the bulkier albums and boxes.
The Captain’s instruments were left in the attic, but Maria presented the children with her own guitar. During their usual gathering in Liesl’s sitting room, she started making a list of the songs the children knew from school or church, and it was a rather meagre list.
She planned on extending that list, and on helping them start to harmonise. She selected a few folk songs that everyone should know, and they started singing a little every day. As the days passed, she progressively added a little bit of harmonising.
One day, Liesl offered to retrieve her father’s guitar and to learn how to play a little bit to accompany Maria. “I do remember something, so I am not a complete beginner.”
Friedrich and Kurt, on the other hand, wanted to add to their list the choir part of the Rainermarsch, the former regimental march of Salzburg’s home Imperial and Royal regiment. They usually heard it from older boys interested in joining students’ association, or young men looking to recruit future students for their association. The boys animatedly presented it as “an essential song to know, now that we all live in Salzburg!”
Maria let them sing the song. In the beginning, it was very amusing, because the boys started by humming the march tune, even imitating the instruments, and having everyone rolling on the floor laughing. Then the strophe began:
Hoch Regiment der Rainer, als tapfer wohl bekannt, High Regiment of the Rainer, known as brave,
wir schützen uns're Heimat, das schöne Vaterland . We protect our homeland, our beautiful fatherland.
Wir siegen oder sterben für unser Heimatland, We conquer or die for our homeland,
dem Feinde zum Verderben, hoch Salzburg, unser Land! To the enemy's ruin, hail Salzburg, our land!
Maria’s slight intake of breath showed that she was horrified—then again, she should have expected it. Singing ‘patriotic’ songs and politically motivated brawls were a reality in Vienna too, and those students’ associations she had crossed in the capital had to recruit the young men somehow—apparently by packing invitations to destroy an unnamed enemy in cheerful march tunes.
“Friedrich, Kurt, don’t you think we should be careful with words like ‘conquer and die’ or ‘to the enemy’s ruin’? Don’t you remember what the Gospel commands us to do? To love. We have so many beautiful songs about nature, or friendship.”
“But men during the war did die to protect our homeland Austria. That’s a song to honour them. Men like Father! The students explained that to us!”
“We can honour them by spreading messages of peace and joy, so that no young men have to die or be separated from their families for long anymore. Don’t you think? What do you think?”
Gretl and Martha were the first to agree. Louisa followed (“I remember how happy we were when we saw Father appear at the Erlhof after the war, just before Christmas! Never again, please!”), and all the girls joined in. In the end, even Friedrich and Kurt gave in.
“Especially because you boys would be the ones to go to war, not us ladies” joked Brigitta, and after a few challenging stares between the contenders, a pillow fight almost ensued.
Incidents like this aside, the children had beautiful voices, and appreciated singing too. She was prepared to have some of the children having preferences for a certain sport or activity, thus trying to sabotage or boycott other activities; however, their sincere bond, and their starvation for pretty much everything that made life worth living made them so happily pliant, that they accepted every suggestion of hers. And when some trouble did stir, she could forgive the usual, typical mischief, knowing how dear they all were.
When the Captain was home once again, they hid the guitars along with the photos and the play clothes. Also, the children had already some command of a few nice songs, and school’s end was near.
Notes:
Since a good part of this story is a love letter to Austria, I added here a tiny love letter to my hometown Modena, too.
The Rainermarsch is a traditional Salzburg march, still performed today in a more peaceful form. The lyrics quoted reflect an older, more militaristic version. It is the unofficial anthem of the Land Salzburg (the Salzburg region/state).
I absolutely loved the image of Maria going behind the Captain’s back - both literally and figuratively - in the wood chopping scene. It’s also a metaphor of how she really despises him for what he is doing to the children. Don’t forget this scene, because we will be coming back to it.
Chapter 5: Slow Train Coming
Summary:
Change is not something that happens in an instant. It’s more like a slow train coming.
Featuring a showdown with the Battle of Sarcasm Maria vs. the Captain, then the Queen of biting remarks, the Baroness.
Only a few lines borrowed from film canon.
Lots of comedy, then finally dealing with grief and processing it.
Notes:
Chapter title from Bob Dylan’s album and song. (It’s also Christian-era Dylan, so it’s very fitting.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Captain had indeed come home, but he announced that he was only in passing, to pick up the car since he was going to Vienna, his announcement stirring up several reactions in the household.
“I will depart for Vienna immediately tomorrow in the morning. I will visit Baroness von Schräder and Uncle Max, and will come back with them.”
As he dropped the bomb, the Captain tried to reassure himself internally. Max had insisted. Again. The children needed a mother, and Elsa—elegant, charming Elsa—had been hinting in all possible manners at the fact that she would be interested. Why had he waited this long? Surely, introducing her now was logical. Necessary, even. And yet, as he announced it at dinner, he felt the weight of seven pairs of eyes on him. No cheering. No excitement. Only quiet hesitation.
The children, in fact, exchanged a lot of perplexed looks.
Maria was rather lost upon hearing the names, until she remembered Frau Schmidt mentioning the Baroness as the possible future mother of the children. What she found confusing was that she had never heard that name again after her talk with the housekeeper. Did that mean that…
“So, we are finally going to meet the Baroness,” asked Brigitta.
Yep, that meant exactly that. Captain Spoilsport was thinking of marrying a woman who had never met his children. So much for her praying Help them be happy again. Maria felt something exploding in her head, and hurt herself biting her tongue while chewing forcefully. Alas, apparently the Lord had a few more challenges for her, and she accepted that.
“As I said, I am bringing her here when we come back, together with Uncle Max, who will be working on the Festival. But how is it that I don’t have to scold you for cheering out loud at the mention of Max?”
“Well, Uncle Max is not a surprise, Father. The Baroness coming is,” observed Liesl.
Friedrich wanted to be helpful. “Fräulein Maria, Uncle Max is one of father’s friends. He is so much fun! I think you will like him!”
His father wasn’t convinced, but could not say anything meaningful in front of the children, so he simply raised an eyebrow and grunted. Max Detweiler, society man and scoundrel, and Maria Rainer, wonder teacher and governess from a convent, interacting. What could possibly go wrong?
“Oh, I am looking forward to meet him, then.”
After dinner, the children shared a little more about the bits she had got at the table.
As usual, Liesl took the lead. “Uncle Max is an old family friend, and the Baroness too, though not a friend for as long as Uncle. He has often visited us, sometimes with our real uncles in tow, although they have a lot of businesses to look after that require their attention. They usually cheer us up.
We never met the Baroness, but we have heard her name mentioned often. Visits, meetings and all, you know. Vienna, mostly.”
Kurt added: “Uncle Max is as funny as you, Fräulein Maria! Even Father jokes when he is around!”
Brigitta made her own suggestion. “You know, Fräulein Maria, Father seems to listen to Uncle Max. Maybe you should… make sure you and Uncle Max get along?"
Maria gave her a look. "Brigitta, that almost sounded like scheming and plotting."
“Oh, no, Fräulein Maria. Just making sure we will all get along.” Her grin told otherwise.
Louisa was deep in thought. “I just hope this Baroness doesn’t bring trouble with her, such as Father requiring even more discipline.”
Maria suggested: “Well, then we will have to prepare an appropriate welcome for them both, so that they become your first supporters when you sing a nice folk song about the beauty and peace of our mountains!”
Captain might-as-well-send-wedding-invitations-to-the-gossiping-public-before-his-own-children Spoilsport had kept his promise and left for Vienna. Therefore, it was time for the last phase of Maria’s plan: to continue practicing singing, to prepare a nice song to welcome the two Viennese guests, and to be ready for the rebellion.
Maria decided on a bold move: to buy a gramophone and records for the house, hoping to introduce the children to new songs and musical pieces, and encourage them to sing. With her regular wages, savings from before joining the Abbey, and no room and board expenses, she enlisted Betty's advice and Hans's help to organize an outing with the girls.
The gramophone was definitely an enrichment, with the children being enthusiast and dreaming of buying records regularly. Maria hoped it would be so soon.
They selected together a song about the love for the mountains and music, and they started practising harmonising together. Liesl learnt her part on guitar too. All of this while they were preparing for the end of the school year, but the children were troopers.
The end of lessons brought finally a long yearned-for novelty: a few trips and hikes. Of course, Salzburg’s weather could be rather flighty, and that sometimes posed a challenge to Maria’s ideas. They started with a few slow walks on the Mönchsberg and Rainberg, checking for Martha, who still had to build back her strength and resistance slowly, and Gretl. Then she tried a few paths in Elsbethen, she took them to Werfen by train and let them roam free below and around the fortress, and soon she felt confident that the children could stand making longer walks and a few easy hikes.
She therefore checked the bus and tram schedules, and organised the easier trips first. A walk in the neighbourhood of Wals, along the Saalach to Grünau. Then, a walk between Moosstraße and the beautiful meadows and hills going towards the Untersberg and Gois.
After a test trip on the Kapuzinerberg, with its steep start, Maria felt confident they could soon explore the Gaisberg and the Elsbethen area in depth, always being careful to have them rest and alternate activities.
The children sometimes commented that they had never tried so many things in their life, not even Liesl, who remembered rather calmer pastimes and a more repetitive life.
And this way, weeks passed, slowly, affectionately.
The Captain slowly turned left onto Aigner Straße, a little lost in his thoughts. They would be home soon, and then the last scrutiny would begin, namely seeing Elsa at the villa, with the children. Then he would think even more about it, for as long as he deemed necessary.
Family and friends had been saying for about three years that he needed to remarry, for the children to have more support upon entering society. Therefore, he had endured endless society gatherings of all sizes and sorts, and—while he was still bleeding in his soul—had been paraded in front of eligible women. He had only accepted because everyone kept repeating “for the children, for their entrance into society.” And so, he caved.
Elsa, an acquaintance from before the war, and a good friend of Max’s, had suddenly decided to make a run for it. She, one of Vienna’s main socialites, recently widowed too, had in the past year begun to pay him more attention during the last year. Soon, he started appearing with her (and Max in tow) at many events, and tongues had started wagging. She appreciated his sarcasm, and he appreciated her liveliness. She was elegant and beautiful. And, as Max not so jokingly repeated often, “as fabulously rich as you. I would love to keep all that lovely money in the family!”
Last time he had married… it hadn’t been like this. Was this now the only way out? Was it mandatory, marrying for duty and companionship, the joys of youth irrevocably gone?
He turned left once again onto Traunstraße. It was time.
“Georg, did you forget the way home and need to concentrate? You have been very silent during these last minutes,” suddenly remarked Max. Elsa let out one of her sophisticated giggles as usual.
“Well, I have been away several weeks, after all. You fault, of course,” but the smile in his voice was only tepid and lacked the usual liveliness that ensued when Max was around.
“Well, I thank you, Georg. And here I thought it was Elsa’s!”
“I would say the fault lies equally between you two.”
Max screamed internally. Why wasn’t Georg taking the opportunity to be more gallant? What was wrong with him?
He would have to work a lot, both on the Festival and on his old friend.
“Oh, Max, he was probably rehearsing in his mind the words with which to welcome me to his villa, be kind!”
Georg commented with a very forced, “Of course, darling, that was it.” He almost regretted that the news from home had always been peaceful: one of the children playing a trick and scaring away Elsa might have solved the conundrum quickly.
“There we are, Elsa. Your first sight of Villa Trapp,” he reprised. And with that, he parked his Steyr XII next to his old Austro-Daimler, near the entrance, sky darkening with clouds as he did.
The villa looked peaceful indeed. Maybe “peaceful” was what he needed for now in life. Not emotions, not great things, just “peaceful”, and a few appearances in public with Elsa to appease her.
He let his two friends inside, and soon Frau Schmidt and Franz appeared to greet them and take their orders.
“Frau Schmidt, we will all go to refresh ourselves, then we would like to sit down in the sitting room immediately here on the right. I think a thunderstorm or rainstorm is coming soon. Could you please let the children know that we would like them to come down and greet us in about half an hour?”
“I will have Betty set up the sitting room immediately. The children, however, are out with Fräulein Maria,” and Frau Schmidt felt proud for not flinching while saying that.
So that is why the peace, he thought. “Any idea about when they might be back?”
Only decades of experience let the housekeeper reply quickly, “I trust they will be back soon, sir.”
After the agreed-upon half an hour, the three reconvened in the elegant sitting room, with a large door and ample windows. Georg noticed immediately that something was off.
A gramophone was standing proud on one table, a few records next to it.
Georg started suspecting that something, somewhere in his life, was actually wrong. His sensations, the gramophone and the records… and now, suddenly, he was grasped by the gnawing doubt that all those reports of peace and harmony were the dreaded calm before the storm (a thing of which he, as a sailor, should have known all about). His mind suggested the rebellious wonder teacher, who defied me on my first day, is behind it; his training told him to keep calm and wait, for now.
In that exact moment, a thunder boomed, and Georg started believing all kinds of superstitions. All the windows shook, and Elsa obviously took the opportunity to liven up the setting. “Georg, when I said I wanted an exceptional reception, this is not what I meant! A Wagnerian reception? From you?”
Max, who was curiously looking at the records, replied, “No Wagner here, so either we let nature continue the composition, or we will have to wait for the orchestra Georg has probably hidden somewhere to impress you. In the meantime, we can choose among Bellini, Norma; Strauss, a collection of waltzes; folk songs;” he said with a peculiar enunciation that belied his surprise, “Mozart, Symphony No. 40 in G minor, K. 550; and…” a pause and yet another weird enunciation, “Bessie Smith! Georg, I had no idea you were into jazz!”
“I am not. In fact, I have never seen that gramophone or those records before.” The first raindrops started falling.
“Well, your staff must get a raise, then. It was a nice idea for a reception. The Bessie Smith record alone must have cost a fortune, by the way. The gramophone doesn’t look new… maybe they got a used one?”
Georg somehow doubted that ‘the staff’ had something to do with it, and that the single member of the staff responsible for this would be getting a raise.
Announced by a violent bust of wind, the rain had turned into a full-fledged thunderstorm as the trio was pouring their drinks and timidly starting consuming them.
Betty entered with her usual bright smile and the drinks on a tray. “Welcome, Baroness! Welcome back, Captain. Welcome back, Herr Detweiler!”
Both gentlemen greeted the maid, whereas the Baroness simply nodded as a gesture of acknowledgement. She briefly wondered why Georg and Max were being so friendly to the maid.
Betty then made a strategic retreat: as much as she loved Maria and the children, she wasn’t ready to get caught in the crossfire that would soon erupt here.
Max turned back to his previous topic, brandy in hand. “Should I play the ‘Norma’? Or Mozart? I would play jazz as well, but if you, Georg, don’t like it…”
Elsa cut in. “Max, no one cares what record you are going to play. Georg, your villa is really exquisite, from what I have seen so far. One would never imagine that such an island of elegance and sophistication could be found in the province, in the country. This looks almost like a palace. I can only imagine how well-behaved and elegant your children must be.” She sipped some of her lemonade, while Georg did the same with his 4-PM tiny bit of brandy.
The door burst open.
The sounds of the thunderstorm accompanied a loud, breathless chatter, and with that the children in question tumbled in, sopping wet, cheeks flushed from the rain and adventure, half-shouting over each other as they excitedly commented on their afternoon. The trio bent slightly to better take in the scene.
What were they wearing? The Captain was too paralysed to reach for more brandy, but he would have gladly downed the entire bottle. Those were not their uniforms. They luckily were not their Trachten either, or the rain would have ruined them.
Maria, soaked through but grinning like she'd won a battle, pulled off her soaking shawl and scolded them half-heartedly while obviously having had the time of her life. “Well, children, I TOLD you we wouldn’t outrun the storm. But nooooo, Fräulein Maria, we can make it, we know a shortcut! If we cut through the woods, we will pop up near Castle Aigen. Very well done.”
The Captain slowly put down his drink—speechless, open-mouthed, his finger nervously tapping on the glass.
Elsa blinked, horrified by every single detail she progressively took in but trying not to show it. Every-single-one-of-them. Especially the horrible clothes and the young beautiful woman standing straight and tall in front of them, unencumbered and unbothered as if it were normal.
Max, always the one to see the humour in all things, was about to choke on his own laughter. Not even one of the best shows he had produced could have timed it better—Elsa’s statement and, well, whatever this was immediately after. The children were wearing ridiculous clothes, as was the governess… who was a young and lovely woman, with a figure to die for! Max thanked the Wagnerian gods for sending him such a sight to brighten his afternoon, then made a note to drill Georg about how this had come to be. Oh dear, soaked trousers on a womanly vision! And they were all sopping wet in the hall, immediately in front of them, elegantly dressed as per Vienna fashion. What a subversion of rules, of decorum!
The children suddenly noticed the trio watching, and—without thinking—they launched themselves into the sitting room. More chatter, a few greetings, Maria following them and twittering “Oh, Grüß Gott! Captain, you are home! You must be Baroness von Schräder and Herr Detweiler!”, and then the children, trying to sound smart, launched into some absurdly detailed meteorological explanation of why they miscalculated the rain.
“You see, Father, the cumulonimbus cloud formation indicated—” Friedrich truly wanted to impress.
“Yes, but the wind was coming from the South, the Alps, which—as Fräulein Maria said…” Kurt probably didn’t want to be any less than his brother.
“I TOLD you we should have taken the left path near the brook, but noooo, Friedrich had to—” Louisa sounded rather bitter.
“It’s not my fault! Liesl, YOU said—”
“We should have listened to Fräulein Maria when she said—”
The whistle resounded, calling the children at attention, and the children scrambled to fall in line in front of their father, now standing, and of the guests. Maria stood back, still unbothered, arms crossing, watching the scene unfold as if it were a scene of a comedy of manners.
As soon as he was satisfied by the result, the Captain announced, “This is Baroness von Schräder,” looking at Elsa. The children did their usual bows and curtseys. He then continued, “And these,” some sarcasm flowing out of his words and hitting pretty much everyone in the room, “are my children.”
The Baroness called upon her entire strength as a society queen, refrained from laughing (she resorted to biting her bottom lip, a sign that even she was in dire straits), stood up and replied, “Pleasure to meet you!”
The Captain then ordered, “Now say hello to Uncle Max,” to which the choral “Hallo” followed, and then barked “All right. Now. Go to your room, dry off, change your clothes and then come back here!”
The children ran away, not without looking with worry but also understanding at Maria.
Then the Captain said, “Fräulein Maria, if you please,” and gestured for her to follow him.
The Captain led her to his study and had her sit.
So far, it was all as Maria had envisioned their long overdue confrontation going.
But that was all she had guessed: the beginning.
His “Sit down, please” had been delivered with a thin, brittle smile stretched across his lips, not reaching his eyes, which remained hard and cold. It was a rictus of politeness, nothing more.
“Fräulein Maria,” he began, the title enunciated in an overly formal manner, “make yourself comfortable. Would you perhaps care for some... refreshment?” His voice was as sweet as honey laced with some poison—not enough to kill, but enough to harm.
Oh, so he is playing the sarcasm card again instead of exploding. Maria wasn’t sure if it was bad or good.
“Or maybe tea would be more apt. You look like you had enough refreshment for today, and I wouldn’t want my guests to think my receptions are a disaster, lacking in both manners and comfort, wouldn’t we?” Each word was delivered with a deliberate slowness, heavy with mockery, while that tight smile held its ground.
“I think water will do, thank you. I know you are going to say I had enough of that, but even though there is no certain proof of its insalubrity yet, I think I will refrain from drinking rainwater as much as possible.”
The Captain actually poured her a glass of water, and put it in front of her, manners impeccable, corners of his mouth still sardonically twisted. Then seated behind his desk, formal posture and all, threading his fingers together.
“You must be exhausted after leading a battalion-sized retreat from the forces of nature. Anything else you might need? May I offer you a towel? A brandy? A moment to explain why exactly my children arrived home looking like participants in a failed expedition to Burma during the wet season?"
Maria was just as capable of being sharp-tongued. “As you might have noticed, there is a thunderstorm going on. Strong rain showers tend to get people soaked—hair and clothes and all. I never thought a former naval captain would find it so difficult to understand the proprieties of water.”
“And, may I ask, what is it exactly that you and the children were wearing while learning about the consequences of meteorological phenomena?”
“Play clothes.”
“Oh, is that what you call them? And where did you get them?”
“I made them. From the curtains that used to hang in my bedroom and that you so kindly had changed. I also got some other material one way or another, and some scraps from the dresses I made for myself. I must thank you; you were very generous!”
“Curtains? And scraps? And some unspecified materials?”
“Oh yes. Waste not; especially the curtains still had a lot of wear left.”
“ARE YOU telling me that my children have been roaming somewhere around Salzburg wearing clothes made of old CURTAINS?” The Captain was gripping the desk as he delivered these lines.
“To be more specific, they have been in town, in Wals, in Fürstenbrunn, in Werfen, in Elsbethen, and of course here in Aigen. Trips, short hikes, simple walks, or playing. A pity we haven’t managed Hallein yet. Oh, and they had a marvellous time!”
Maria wondered frankly why he still hadn’t snapped. Gripping the table was still some form of control (she knew it very well from personal experience…)
“I also would like to know: would you happen to know anything about the gramophone and the records in the sitting room?”
“I bought them,” Maria replied. “Mostly used. I thought they'd enrich the children’s lives, educationally and for enjoyment.”
“Don’t you think that I would have bought them myself if I thought my children needed to waste time dreaming while listening to music?”
Oh oh. She filed his revealing choice of words away. Interesting.
She met his gaze. “No time was wasted. Their school reports prove that.”
The Captain’s stare turned slightly murderous.
“Another question, Fräulein Maria. You were… rather confrontational on your first day here, and only slightly polemic on the second. After that, I thought we had reached a truce—that I would not call you by whistle, or force you to use it, or interfere with your methods, but that you would respect my rules. Could it be that you have been transgressing almost every single rule as soon as I wasn’t here?”
“Captain, let’s be specific about ‘discipline.’ Your children have excelled in their studies. They’ve been punctual, respectful, and kind. There’s been no cruelty, lying, or neglect of schoolwork. Some minor fighting, immediately curbed. Any discipline I’ve used has been minor – a scolding, perhaps.
If, by ‘discipline,’ you mean shouting instead of explaining calmly, punishing instead of teaching, forcing sailor suits and elegant clothes all the time, forbidding outdoor play, affection, music, or them spending free time together… then yes, I’ve disregarded all of that.”
Maria stood tall, proud, and utterly defiant. Her insolent, satisfied expression was a clear challenge.
The Captain stood up abruptly, trying to control his breathing. “They have their sailor suits and Trachten…”
“Straitjackets, the way you used them, always worried about the children getting dirty…”
He started circling her, but she kept sitting straight and proud. “And they are my children! They cannot roam about as if they were street urchins, dressed in old curtains and scraps…”
“They are children! They need to play sports and games, they need to run, and they cannot do it if they fear ruining their elegant clothes. They wouldn’t dare! They love you too much! They fear you too much…”
“I don’t wish to discuss my children in this manner…”
“Well, you’ve got to hear it from someone! You are seldom home, and when you are, you keep them distant as much as you can, except when you are forced to interact with them one way or another. You show sometimes some kindness…”
“I think I said I don’t want to discuss my children in this manner…”
“…sometimes you do show some attachment to the children, and you even seem proud of them, but then you get back to being distant and you strip away all the joy from their life with your rules…”
“In which language should I tell you that I don’t wish to discuss my children in this manner?”
“Oh, is that your only argument? Well, I know perfectly well you don’t want to discuss either your so-called rules, or your children ‘in this manner’, but you have got to, before it’s too late! You have seven children who only want your love, your attention, and they are growing up fast.... now take Liesl…”
“Don’t say a word about my daughter…”
“Liesl is going to be a young woman soon, and you won’t even know her. And yet, she is the one who defends you the most, because she understands you…”
“Fräulein, you are touching topics that are none of your business!”
“And Friedrich? Don’t you see how desperately he wants to be a man like you, and he does not get enough inputs from you, let alone the affection that he still rightfully craves?
“Don’t you dare lecture me about my son!”
“Brigitta could tell you all about it. She notices everyone and everything. And Kurt pretends to be the tough one, but he is a sweet boy who suffers for your distance. Louisa is a very clever girl, and she misses terribly the father she remembers from years ago, the one who affectionately picked her up from the snow in Zell am See…”
He stopped, facing her and standing still, hands behind his back. “Fräulein, you will stop right now…”
Maria’s voice rang out, unwavering. “And the little ones just want to be loved. Oh, please, Captain, love them! Love them all!”
He stopped.
Not just his pacing—his breathing, his thoughts, the entire rhythm of the argument.
For the first time, he truly looked at her.
She wasn’t flinching. She wasn’t backing down. She was sitting tall, head high, unshaken, her words slicing through him like a blade.
How had he let her seize the conversation? When had he gone from questioning her… to defending himself?
Something twisted in his chest, something he didn't have time to name. His mouth opened—a command, a retort, something to reassert his control—but what came out instead was:
“I don’t care to hear anything more from you…”
She surged forward, voice cracking with fire:
“I AM NOT FINISHED, CAPTAIN!”
“OH, YES, YOU ARE, CAPTAIN!”
The Captain’s patience was at an end. He acknowledged the slip, with a “Fräulein;” then, after a dramatic pause, he issued his sentence.
“Now, you will pack your things and return to the Abbey, immediately. Wonder teacher or not…”
And just in that moment, as Maria was asking herself what the Lord was trying to tell her, a guitar and some voices resounded in the house.
The Captain froze on the spot. “What’s that?”
“It’s singing.”
“Yes, Fräulein, thank you. I realise it’s singing, but WHO is singing?”
“The children.”
“The children?” And for the first time since the beginning of their exchange, the Captain sounded like a normal person who was pleasantly surprised by hearing such angelic voices harmonising.
Was that her success?
The Captain simply left the study in silence, and she trailed behind to check what would happen.
The children were singing the song they had prepared for the Baroness, Liesl playing the guitar. Maria could not see Herr Detweiler and the Baroness sitting still, enchanted by the show of seven elegantly dressed beautiful children singing a poetic folk song just for them, to welcome them—their harmonising perfect, not one voice off key.
What she saw, was the Captain stopping on the threshold, then leaning slowly on it, all the while listening. At first in silence; then he started humming, and she could see his head swaying, moving along with the melody, and she thought it was nice, and it was enough for her to leave for the convent with her soul in peace.
Finally, the Captain walked right into the room, and started singing along, his usual velvety tones interpreting the song in a beautiful rich voice. She stepped forward to continue watching.
The children stopped at first, completely flabbergasted; but when they saw him continue singing, they reprised their harmonising, and the family finished the song together.
Maria felt her vision blur, a warmth rising to her throat. The tears this time were different—no longer for their pain, but for their joy. This is why I was sent here…
She saw the father standing still, but could not see a tear streaming down his lordly face. She saw the children gaping at him; then the father made a further step forward and stretched his arms.
The children run straight into them, and Maria knew her victory, the Lord’s victory, was complete. She watched for a little bit the family exchanging a few hugs, and heard the Baroness complimenting them, “Georg! You never told me your children could be so utterly charming,” then upon being noticed by the Captain, she started climbing up the stairs to pack her things. It was time to head back to Nonnberg.
She didn’t notice the Captain telling the children to stay in the sitting room and hurrying after her until she heard his voice calling her.
“Fräulein.” His voice carried an urgency she had never heard before—almost pleading.
“Yes, Captain?”
“I… behaved badly. All of it. I was wrong on all fronts. I apologise, for everything.”
“I… should apologise too. I did go behind your back—questionable, I admit—. I don’t make a habit of it… but in this case, I had to. I only did it for the children, to give them what they needed. I hope you can understand. And sometimes… I was confrontational just for the sake of it, to prove a point
“Fräulein… I am glad you did what you did. You were right; I don’t know my children, and I have been keeping them at distance. I lost so many years—years I could have spent near them, basking in their love.”
Maria leaned on the banister of the balcony with both her forearms. “There is still time, Captain. The future begins now. Your love and attention, and a normal life full of everything that makes life worth living; that’s all they ask for. And if you start now, everything will be all right.”
“I hope so.” His sadness was palpable, his gaze to the floor.
“I know so. You know, I learnt it from these wonderful children I met recently, and they have told me so many things about how they love their father, and how they were just waiting for him to come back,” Maria said smiling. “Very wise children. I should introduce you. You might like them,” and she winked.
The Captain smiled in return. “You brought life and music back into my house. I will always be thankful to you for that.”
“That is why the Lord sent me,” and she made for her room, but the Captain wasn’t finished.
“Fräulein, I want you to stay,” his tone not matching his commanding words, but nevertheless he corrected himself, “I ask you to stay.”
“If I can be of any help…”
“You have already. I just think we all would like you to stay. At least for a while. You were meant to stay here till next April; you are still welcome to do so, but you are free to go earlier, to go any time you might want to. I am just asking you not to go yet, please.”
Maria thought of the children, and she thought he must have thought the same. That they were attached to her, that they still needed supervision, that they might need help in welcoming a new mother soon. That change was not a matter of a few minutes, but more like a slow train coming.
“Yes, of course, I’ll stay.”
Dinner was a relaxed, tastefully joyful affair. The family was still basking in the warmth of being truly reunited; Maria was still praising the Lord and feeling relieved for those dear children; Max simply waited for things to unfold, and Elsa was convinced that dinner in semi-formal attire was her turf.
The Captain asked the children questions about the last weeks and even about their afternoon trip, showing his sincere interest, unencumbered by the need to keep his distance. “So, do you miss your classmates already?” “How did you manage to have all positive school reports?” “Where have you been?” “What did you like best?” “Have you seen how the works for the new airfield in Himmelreich are coming?” all followed by the children’s animated answers and recollections.
Maria couldn’t help but look at them and smile. For the first time, she found herself at dinner smiling at the Captain in an encouraging and friendly way; no sarcasm, no defiance, not even a more innocent intellectual challenge. And, for the first time as well, the Captain returned her smile at the very same table, equally unclouded by sarcasm or restraint.
They both understood each other, finally.
Therefore, the Captain felt free to gleefully pull Fräulein Maria into the conversation. “Combining hiking in Elsbethen and teaching meteorology. Fräulein Maria, even for you, that was a bold move, but very effective! As a naval captain, I am bowing to you!”
The children’s belly laugh resounded in the room; Betty, who was serving in that exact moment, almost tipped a saucer and had to stifle her laugh; Max and Elsa pricked up their ears.
Maria could for the first time appreciate the Captain’s brand of humour, including that innocent tribute at her own prior sarcasm. Nevertheless, she first opened her mouth in shock, before turning it into a smile and saying, “Oh, you are too kind.”
Not satisfied with that, the Captain continued. “Max, Elsa, do you remember what I told you, about the town talking about her skills and her training? Fräulein Maria, please, tell our guests where you trained as a teacher.”
The Captain’s honest praise—he had actually always praised her for this, right?—could not erase the fact that she felt uncomfortable revealing her background to two Viennese high society personalities dressed to the nines. However, there was nothing she could do. “In Vienna, at the State Teachers’ College of Progressive Education,” she admitted. “Of course, I do adapt my methods to the pupils and the goals we have, and I don’t shy away from… more traditional approaches when they might be useful.”
The Baroness was frankly tired of letting the master of the house lead the conversation, and was glad to finally have an opening. “Oh, my dear Maria. Georg has been telling us all about how he was so proud to have secured the best teacher and governess for his children. I must admit I have not heard of your school, but you must know how important it is for the children in our circles to be absolutely prepared to enter society, and how pivotal good teachers and governesses are in this. After all, we entrust our future to them. So, on this note, I would like to add my heartfelt thanks and to express my absolute admiration for what you have clearly been doing, and doing well.”
Maria blinked. That was the first time anyone had drawn a line between them. In three months, not even the Captain had ever done such a thing. In fact, apart from the Captain’s vague mention of ‘the children’s image’, and from Frau Schmidt rather practical observation about the staff, she hadn’t heard any digs at their class differences. The staff itself had talked more about class, with the distinction about ‘posh governesses’ and them.
Maria had barely registered the implications of Elsa’s words when Max, ever the showman, sensed the shift in mood.
With a glint of curiosity and a well-timed diversion, he swooped in to redirect the conversation—though not necessarily to safer ground. Still very curious about how such a lovely creature had ended up in an Abbey, of all places, he worded his question with due caution, knowing that Georg probably was still raw from the rather emotional moments of the afternoon and not necessarily in the right mood for his usual shenanigans. “And, my dear Fräulein, how come you ended up in the world’s oldest female convent when you could have been dazzling Vienna’s concert halls—” He caught Georg’s glance and smoothly pivoted, “—or, well, enlightening young minds in your own unconventional school?”
“Oh… well, I had… a sudden illumination during one of the hikes. You see, I used to hang around with other hikers, and one day I felt so thankful for the beauty of nature that I felt I had to give back something to God. And so, I researched which was the strictest convent in the neighbourhood, and, well, here I am, sent by the Abbey on a mission to help the children, as the Baroness said, ‘prepare for entrance into society.’”
The Baroness nodded. “It is so good to know to hear that you strongly feel your divinely inspired mission.”
Georg completely missed the meaning; Maria thought it was just another classist remark, but Max… Max read it correctly, and predicted a not so relaxing after dinner drink.
The dinner went on and finished with the Baroness and Max asking a few questions to the children during dessert. Max was bolder and willing to joke about the children’s adventures; the Baroness was more smoothly trying to test the waters, to see how the children behaved.
After dinner, the time in the sitting room was drastically reduced by the rather obvious consequences of the afternoon. The Captain, the master of the house, simply announced he would like to put the children to bed, with a tone that stopped the Baroness’s “But that’s what the governess is for!” right in its tracks (the tone, and Max’s hand on her forearm accompanied by his hand shaking). He also added, “We will see you in the morning. Max, make yourself at home, possibly without embarrassing or bankrupting me, and be a graceful host in my stead, will you?”.
Maria asked the Captain in private, in the hall, whether he wanted to put them to bed alone, but the Captain simply said, “I don’t think the children would ever let us do that!”
To confirm that it was, indeed, not contemplated, Gretl announced loudly, “Tonight we get our goodnight hugs from both Fräulein Maria and Father,” and this statement was met with unanimous delight. The uncontainable joy of the children was palpable, and the warmth that Maria felt in her heart was laced with a tender ache and brimming with hope for tomorrow —tears threatening once more.
It was so sweet to have all seven children hug and kiss them both so unreservedly, as if it were what had always happened. In her goodnight, the children put all the gratitude for what she had done for them, for the promise she had kept; in his, the children put all the love they had kept locked inside for four years.
Maria saw something on the Captain’s face that she couldn’t really label, but she guessed he must have been trying to contain both his tears and grief—not just the grief he had been carrying inside since his wife’s death, but the one caused by his own choices.
Once again, she smiled at him encouragingly, and got a smile of gratitude in return.
The warmth of the children's goodnight lingered as Maria made her way upstairs. She did not feel like checking if someone from the staff was having the usual meeting in the kitchen. Instead, she went straight to her room for her prayers, and her thanksgiving. Gratitude filled her heart, deep and unwavering, as if each moment of the evening had reinforced her faith. She was brimming with love for the children, although a slightly bittersweet note whispered that she would soon have to leave them. And that, she knew, it would hurt. But then again, they were not her children, and she could still carry her love for them in her heart even at the Abbey.
“Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Holy Mary. And thank you, Agathe. Now I am sure you can really rest in peace, and just watch your children grow up.”
The Captain slipped unnoticed into his study, and sat down at the very same place where he had gotten his own lesson today. He sighed, palms on the desk; then opened one of the drawers, dug a little under his notebooks and registers, and pulled out two framed photos.
One of Agathe, taken in Pola after they had come back from their honeymoon, with him directing the poor, patient photographer; another one of the entire family, one of their last happy days together.
He put them on the desk. There were almost no prints or signs of time on them. Hidden there, hoping to find the courage to put them back on his desk one day.
That day was here.
Then he picked up Agathe’s photo, and kept it in front of him, both hands trembling on the silver frame. Something blocked his throat, but he managed to whisper, “Oh, Agathe, forgive me!”
And then he burst out crying, all the tears that he had never shed after the night she had gone.
In the sitting room, the events of the afternoon were evaluated in a rather different way.
Max held his third brandy in his hand; Elsa was nursing a fine French cognac, hand-selected by her old friend instead of Georg’s standard fare. Both stared into nothingness in silence, pondering what to say or not to say.
Elsa decided she had pondered enough. “I could accept him being slightly nervous at our arrival, or paying his children due attention—more than usual, even. But what is stopping him from joining us now?”
Max wanted to hit her on the head with the brandy bottle. “Christ, Elsa. You do see what’s happening here, don’t you?”
Socialite Max, her dearest friend and an equal navigator of society’s intricacies, had never sounded quite so angry.
She blinked, thrown off for a second. Then, with cool precision, she took another sip of the expensive distilled wine and reasoned with him. “I came here hoping to discuss wedding plans, and I find Lady Lovely Nun—and the ghost of Agathe. And now I’m drinking alone, except for you, who are never any fun after two glasses. Yes, I know very well that’s the third brandy you’re having, and you didn’t stick to water at dinner either.”
Max gave her a pointed look. “You mean to tell me you expected Georg von Trapp—the man who nearly walled himself alive after his wife’s death—to be easy?”
Elsa scoffed. “I expected him to be decided. Since he brought me here.”
Max tilted his head slightly, watching her. Then he asked, with a slow, knowing drawl:
“Wait a minute. Are you more worried about the ghost of Agathe, or about the stunning, educated postulant?”
Her grip tightened just slightly on her glass. “Aren’t they both worrying presences?”
“Oh, come now,” Max chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “One is dead, Elsa. Has been for over four years. The other one? Is very much here.”
She exhaled, controlled, but the irritation had lost its sharp edge. “Between the two of them, I feel like I will never hear him ask the question.”
“But?”
She hesitated. “But... I don’t know, Max. I don’t have enough to build on. I guess we will see what tomorrow brings.”
She held out her glass. “Now, pour me another.”
In the kitchen, where the day's work was winding down, and where Hans had already arrived for the updates from the day, Betty caught the eye of Helga, Trudi, and Resi. A small, knowing smile played on her lips as she started pouring glasses for all of them, then gestured subtly with her small glass of wine towards the quiet upstairs. Almost reverently, they raised their glasses. “To Maria”, she simply announced. For the change she had brought, no questions asked, only a shared warmth and hope for the future of the Villa.
The following day started early for the Captain, though sleep had never fully claimed him. Change, once unwelcome, had taken hold of him like a mission yet to be completed—a quest that had begun without his full consent but now demanded his attention.
This morning, it led him to another threshold he had long ignored.
He straightened his cuffs, an old habit of self-discipline, before heading to the attic.
The rest of their photos from before were still there, but same as the photos buried in his study, these would have to come back, to do what they were meant to: to remember, all of it.
When he entered the room, the air was thick with dust and memories, but something was off. The albums and boxes full of photographs—the ones he had expected to find right where he had left them—were missing.
He panicked for an instant. What could have possibly happened to them? Why should they disappear from the attic now that he was ready to bring them down?
Then he started realising what, or better yet who, had happened.
Therefore, after breakfast, he asked the children and Fräulein Maria to follow him to one of the sitting rooms to discuss the plans for the day and another important issue, thus dismissing again the two Viennese guests, left to their own devices.
Liesl suggested that they meet in her own sitting room—their own meeting room, their own turf, not the adults’—, and so they went. The children gathered standing around their father; Maria stood a little aside.
The Captain went straight to the point. “So, children, before we discuss our plans for the day, there is something very important I would like to ask you.”
All the faces in the room looked at him intently, waiting for his announcement. Done away with the fear, they were more impatient than anything, except for Maria, who was very curious about this new version of the Captain.
The Captain then reprised. “Have you perchance brought down the photo albums and boxes from the attic?”
There was a pungent silence all of a sudden, with the children being completely taken by surprise, and Maria feeling guilty for having completely forgotten that bit of her revolution.
“If you have taken them, there is nothing wrong with it, children. I just” and he paused a little, his emotions bubbling up again, “went up this morning to bring them down, and they weren’t there. I would like to know if that’s why they were missing, that’s all.” The Captain sounded so honest, and no one had ever heard him talk like that.
Liesl, feeling the responsibility of being not only the oldest one, but also the one who had first suggested they take a few photos each, far before the more recent proposal of bringing down albums and boxes in bulk, started first. “Yes, Father. We took a few photos each, years ago, to have our own memories hidden in our drawers. We only recently brought down the rest, when we picked up your guitar, too.”
All the children nodded.
Maria exploded, guilt almost suffocating her. “The boxes and albums are under my bed, Captain. I thought there was no danger of you, well, searching my room and finding them…”
The Captain interrupted her: “Fräulein Maria, I would have been rather disappointed in you if I hadn’t heard of your involvement somehow.” His tone was that of a good, benevolent and fair lord, not his biting sarcasm of the past.
“Now, I would suggest that we collect the photos and start our day together looking at them and talking about them. There is so much we might want to remember, and probably so much Fräulein Maria doesn’t know about our family. Although I suspect she might already have learned something from you.”
A polite procession of photos, albums, and boxes took place in the cozy sitting room. As a further sign of change, the Captain suggested they all sit together on the carpeted floor, as if it were nothing extraordinary for the man who had until yesterday prohibited his children from getting dirty. Maria felt another one of the bitter traces left on her soul by her animosity towards the man simply evaporate; the children seemed to find it normal, probably remembering the man he used to be, or simply accepting him as he was.
Martha and Gretl sat almost in his lap, and Louisa, Friedrich, and Liesl sat on his sides, leaving Maria in front of the Captain, with Brigitta and Kurt leaning on her.
It was a bittersweet moment for them all. Louisa showed a photo Maria knew well: Christmas 1918, when the Captain's return, just days before, had been the greatest gift his five children could receive. Louisa recounted her memory of that day in Zell am See – playing in the snow with Friedrich, Liesl, and their cousin Connie Baby – when the dishevelled Captain appeared, his joy sparking their own as he swept them up in his arms, Louisa first. She recalled the Italian-speaking soldier who'd accompanied him from Hungary, who'd stayed with them for a time.
The Captain added his own memories: how the tall, burly soldier, self-conscious about being di troppo —a bit extra—, had tried to stay out of the way; how the children's excited cries had alarmed Agathe and Constance, who ran out, their fear easing into joy when they saw him holding Louisa, the children gathered around, and recognized him. "I put down Louisa," he said, "to embrace and kiss Agathe, the Italian soldier cheering us on. Then I went inside to greet young Kurt and Brigitta, and all was well."
The children laughed, Liesl grew a little misty-eyed at the romance, and the Captain's smile held a hint of melancholy. Maria was fascinated that he'd so readily shared such a personal moment, casually mentioning his wife and their post-war embrace.
But the surprises weren’t at an end.
The Captain cleared his throat, and reprised, “I suppose the children must already have told you, but in case they didn’t: Agathe was my wife’s name, the children’s mother’s name.” He paused, as to gather his forces again after this tremendous effort to finally say her name and accept her passing by talking of her in the past tense. “Constance is my brother Werner’s wife. My brother died in 1915 on the Galician front. Connie Baby, or better, Constanze von Trapp, is the children’s cousin.”
Maria, nodded, a timid encouraging smile on her face, acknowledging his effort and also the grief still hidden inside him for all that loss of young lives.
And then, the final statement.
“And before we continue our recollection of our happy moments and our tales to share with Fräulein Maria, I think it’s time I said what needs to be said. I am sorry for how I handled it all. I apologise to you all for my behaviour. Distance from you, strict rules, a home stripped of all joy… all because it hurt too much. It hurt too much to remember her. But it was very wrong of me, and I hurt us all even more. So, if you can find it in your hearts, I ask you to forgive me.”
Maria let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
The children gave their forgiveness, without hesitation.
Notes:
When I was a child in the Eighties, there was a cartoon called “Lady Lovely Locks”. For some reason, as I started writing this, “Lady Lovely Nun” popped into my mind as a snarky pet name by Elsa for Maria, and it stuck.
I hope you laughed and also cried a little bit at reading this chapter.
And... you will love the next ones, believe me!
Chapter 6: The Maiden and the Minstrel Knight
Summary:
Change continues at the Villa. It’s not the children: we love them as adorable menaces, and we wouldn’t want them any other way.
It’s not even Max and Elsa plotting and exchanging caustic remarks and strategies.
It’s the new balance between Maria and the Captain. Quote from the chapter: “Elsa was standing near a fire, and, sadly, she didn’t know a thing about fires, since she had kept away from them all life.”
We also get to know Agathe’s brothers, the children’s uncles.
A few lines from film canon are re-used.
Genres: comedy, romance (yes, finally! Did you think this was a slow burn? Because it’s not!)
Notes:
Chapter title from Blind Guardian’s song. (listen to it!)
You can search for the picture of the proclamation of the Republic in Austria, 12 November 1918, since it’s referenced in the chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Maria had spent weeks—months—learning the rhythms of this house. The small rebellions, the hushed whispers, the way joy had to sneak in through the back door. And now? Joy sat at the breakfast table, fully invited.
Well, it had sat at lunch and dinner table too.
Maria was curious to see how the change, which she also referred to as ‘The Miracle’, would reshape the house and its routine. An intimate morning with the family was followed by an afternoon in which the Captain had to dedicate himself to his guests (and she to a volleyball round as far away from the refined Viennese socialites as possible. Note to self: now it was the time to ask the Captain for a volleyball net to be able to promote to matches).
He had once again decided to put the children to bed with her. After their morning spent watching photos and remembering, she wondered whether he used to put the children to bed with his wife every day before her death. She wondered how his relationship with the children would truly be. What kind of father he would be.
She knew she had seen glimpses of the real Georg von Trapp before. That moment of lightness when they first met; his brilliant humour, even when packed as sarcasm; his rare moments with the children. Then, after The Miracle, she was rather sure she was slowly seeing the real man unpacked hour by hour. The problem was that there was a lot to unpack, as she had long surmised.
Maria wasn’t the only one thinking about the future, though.
The Captain was asking himself similar questions, walking around in his study. How would his life change, now that there was no need to flee from painful recollections? He would definitely try to find a balance between his business requirements and being at home with his children. He would obviously try to pick up as much as possible where he had left. But he was sure there would be things to smooth over, once the joy of their reconciliation was not as fresh.
Besides, there was Fräulein Maria, the wonder teacher and governess who had his children’s hearts and who, he was sure, loved them in return, even though she had obviously never said the words. Apart from the reports he received from Frau Schmidt—reports of harmony, peace and diligent study—, he had heard from his mother-in-law, sister-in-law, and brothers-in-law—who had talked to the children over the phone—how the children absolutely adored Maria, “even when she really had to discipline us,” they had said.
He was rather sure he and Fräulein Maria would go along splendidly from now on. He guessed she would now be glad to talk things through with him, for the good of the children.
His gaze drifted toward the window. She was outside, hands on her hips, surveying the garden as if strategizing a military campaign, the children watching her intently. What was she doing? Hopefully, he would learn it during the course of the morning. The summer morning sun caught in her hair, turning it almost golden; her striking figure near the trees... she looked so effortlessly at ease, so naturally a part of the scene, that it held his attention longer than he intended. Thus, he found himself watching for a second too long before shaking himself. He really ought to focus on his considerations and not on the goings-on in his garden as if he were a primary school pupil escaping his classroom by looking at the squirrels through the window.
He was reminded, not for the first time, of their very first exchange upon her arrival; she, admiring his flag the same way Friedrich had done the day he had brought home his first car (an Austro-Daimler AD 6/17), hands crossed behind her back, and then being so embarrassed at getting caught daydreaming and admiring that she had somehow spontaneously saluted him. The wrong way, of course (who would ever get it right?).
He had found it all so refreshingly honest, and also made him proud to see someone admiring his old flag, that he had even been his old self for a few instants with her. Usually, he had been able to play that part only in salons and sitting rooms when it was absolutely necessary, but it had been spontaneous in that moment.
Would she accept a less formal but more regular way of discussing the children and their plans?
Would she accept him joining them sometimes?
And, if so… would she welcome it?
His musings were interrupted by Elsa’s honeyed, ever-so-slightly teasing tone "Georg, what are you doing hiding in here?" A tilt of her head, a knowing smile. "Brooding? Thinking deep thoughts?". She must have come in—probably waltzed in, as was her usual, but he really hadn’t noticed— while he was deep in his thoughts.
Elsa, reassured by their afternoon spent together the previous day, placed both hands lightly on his arms as if to physically pull him out of his mind and back into her orbit. “There are so many interesting things out there,” she purred, batting her lashes just slightly—Viennese sophistication, not an immature mockery of seduction. “And yet here you are, shut away, being serious. The sun is shining, and, as you say, the weather here in Salzburg is flighty, with a preference for rain.”
Georg admitted to himself that there were many interesting things out there; he just didn’t think sitting with his Viennese friends and exchanging biting commentaries about half Europe, or taking Elsa to town for a walk and shopping was interesting. Certainly not after weeks in Vienna, where he had done the same; certainly not when he had to continue laying the bricks for his future with the children and Fräulein Maria.
Well, time to act. “And yet, despite all those interesting things, you’ve come looking for me,” he mirrored her words, but dipped his in sarcasm first.
“Oh, Georg,” she playfully slapped his arm, “don’t make me regret coming to Salzburg! You were never this gloomy or self-deprecating in Vienna, or elsewhere. Sadly, Max is tied here for the summer. So, what could I do to make you forget all this gloom and doom?” Elsa’s outward elegant giggle didn’t match her internal desperation. Why on earth was she forced to put all of her efforts into catching his attention—again, after her deliberate campaign in all the best sitting rooms and salons of Vienna and of the rest of the country?
(Well, Lady Lovely Nun and her ‘progressive teaching’, that was probably why. Sending the entire family on a journey of emotional re-discovery on the exact day of her arrival, as if she were an Arthur Schnitzler or a Sigmund Freud. Bravo, Fräulein! By the way, was a postulant at Nonnberg Abbey even allowed to think about Schnitzler or Freud?)
She was prepared for yet another moment of witty repartees, but Georg derailed her entire strategy with a single sentence, uttered with the very same pensive look on his face.
“I have to go outside to talk to Fräulein Maria and the children. I will join you later.”
Elsa replied, drawing out her words, the corner of her mouth stretching in one of her well-practised smiles. “Of course, darling! We will be waiting for you on the terrace on the back!”
Georg immediately exited the room, leaving her alone to ponder whether the lower classes had it easier: free to scream, to bicker, to riot even. She loved playing the game; but being one of the leading personalities in Vienna, and a famous socialite in salons all over Europe, could be an exhausting game sometimes, and right now, she was feeling that exhaustion in her bones. What was ironic was that she usually played against her peers, not against a Fräulein Maria.
The Captain reached Fräulein Maria and the children, a newfound ease in his stride as he came towards them, his steps brisker and more purposeful than they had been in a long time. “Children, Fräulein Maria,” he said nodding, his voice carrying a warmth that had been absent for too long. The children's response was immediate and uninhibited. “Father!” they chorused, their voices bright and eager.
Maria stepped forward, her gaze steady. “Captain,” she said, her tone straightforward and without any of the previous tension, “I wanted to ask you whether we could get a volleyball net for the garden? Also, if you could help us decide where to put it, as to avoid Frau Schmidt’s wrath should a ball fly too far and break a window?”.
No hesitation, no clever turns of words. She had immediately asked him what she felt the children needed, open to discuss the matter with him. And that was what she was probably doing in the garden: pondering which part of the lawn would be appropriate.
They would be all right. She hadn’t lied. She had only done things behind his back before because he was being impossible.
He pulled out his smile of gratitude and understanding for the Fräulein. “Volleyball, hey? I know of the sport, but I have to say I am not an expert myself. I will gladly let you have a net, of course. As for where to put it… I suppose as far away from the house as possible, on a portion of the lawn which is as flat and even as possible. Maybe a little down the path towards the train station? But I will trust you to find the perfect spot. Oh, and as for wrath, you should rather fear that of the person who would be paying for a new window,” he said with a lopsided grin and a good amount of glee, sending his children and Maria herself into laughter.
How different it was, talking like this. The words flowed easily, without the stiffness of formality or the sharp edges of confrontation. It felt… natural. Familiar, even.
Maria returned his smile, unable to resist. “Why do I believe that, in this case, your bark is worse than your bite?”
“I suppose because the children must have told you about some incidents we had while playing in the past, incidents in which I did play a role.” Another smile, a playful glint in his eyes, another burst of laughter from his audience.
They would be all right. The thought settled in the Captain’s mind as he looked at her. Whatever else had been between them before—mistrust, frustration, that maddening ability of hers to disrupt his carefully ordered world—something else had taken its place now.
Not quite friendship, not yet. But something close. The kind of understanding that made things easier, lighter. The kind that made the future seem less complicated.
Maria must have felt it too. She held his gaze for just a moment longer, and then, with another shared smile, they both let the moment pass: unspoken, but understood.
Brigitta and Louisa were rather fascinated by the subtle but not invisible exchange, but they hurriedly categorised it as another sign of the miraculous change brought by Maria.
Liesl, however…
Her head was full of Elizabeth and Darcy, of meaningful glances and unspoken understandings (after a lot of misunderstandings). And Rolf—oh, Rolf had smiled at her like that so many times, hadn’t he? A small, flighty thought surfaced, unexpected, unbidden. It made no sense, of course. None at all.
And yet, there had been something, something different in that quiet, natural exchange. Something warm, something new.
No. Ridiculous.
Liesl turned her attention back to the conversation, shaking the thought away like one might shake off an unexpected raindrop. What did it matter, anyway? Her father was just happy. They were all happy. That was all. That was all.
Still, wasn’t Pride and Prejudice based on the reality of its era?
“Elsa, I think it’s rather natural that he might want to check on his children and on his most important member of the staff sometimes.”
“What does he hire ‘staff’ for if he is the one doing the work? Shouldn’t Lady Lovely Nun be able to plan ahead and have a wonderful summer program for the brood in the bat of an eye?”
Max lifted his gaze from the Salzburger Volksblatt (Georg had kindly acquiesced to buy both the Chronik and the Volksblatt, to be a good host and give his friends enough reading material, political views notwithstanding). “Elsa, darling, I adore your sharp tongue, but if you keep calling her that, you're going to slip up and say it in front of Georg. Do of that what you will.” He put down his newspaper, sighing. “As for your question… you aristocrats really are fascinating. You cling to your titles, despite the Republican decree that stripped you all of them. Then you keep insisting that you ‘don’t work’, which is mostly not true. I swear, Georg works more than my bourgeois self sometimes, what with his projects, and shares, and his constant monitoring of the children’s activities, even from afar. So, he is actively involved in his children’s life: was that a surprise to you?”
“He never really talked about his children, Max.”
“I should not be the one to tell you that sometimes people talk without spelling out the words. That the children being on his mind was the hint. That they were important to him. Elsa, are you losing your touch?”
“That is not all I will be losing if things don’t change.”
“Elsa, Elsa, that is not you. You should be plotting and scheming, not defeatist. You should be cheerful and ready to welcome him when he arrives. Do you want to transform into the stereotype of the bad-tempered nagging wife before earning the title of wife itself?”
Elsa’s slightly open mouth showed that he had, indeed, shocked her—hopefully into action.
The object of their conversation appeared in that moment. “See? He is already here, and in a good mood, it seems. Just enjoy your time in Salzburg, play your usual magic, and I am sure there will be bells ringing before we know it.” Max tapped her playfully, and prepared to get back to his newspapers.
Whether it was Elsa’s reluctant efforts, Max’s subtle manoeuvring, or simply the natural course of events, the household soon settled into a surprising state of peace.
The Captain continued to be more host than commander, alternating between the indulgent father and the courteous gentleman with a grace that might have startled those accustomed to his former severity. Maria, for her part, found that both her autonomy and the newfound household harmony remained blessedly undisturbed. Her day was filled with laughter, music, and a rather successful campaign to keep the children both entertained and—miraculously—out of trouble (as, she dared to hope, all the days to come would be).
Pleased with this newfound equilibrium, Maria decided to offer a moment of shared delight. She gathered the children for a Jagdlied—a spirited hunting song meant to evoke the camaraderie of the outdoors—and led them in singing it for the household’s assembled audience. Captain von Trapp, Max, and Elsa listened as the voices rose and fell in playful harmony. Max, ever the connoisseur of charm and talent, beamed in approval; Elsa, smiling politely, sipped her wine, trying to ignore Lady Lovely Nun. The Captain, however, made no effort to temper his delight: by the time the children reached the second verse, he was no longer merely listening—he was basking. The fond smile, the quiet chuckle when Kurt over-dramatized a line, the unmistakable pride in his eyes as Liesl led a particularly intricate harmony—all of it was clear, unguarded, and entirely unforced.
Maria felt something warm settle in her chest. This was a man who, not so long ago, had silenced music and laughter in his home. And yet here he was, completely at ease, utterly present, and wholly engaged with the joy his children were so eager to share.
The following afternoon, emboldened by their recent triumphs in makeshift volleyball (or some approximation of it, until the promised net arrived), the children declared it high time for a proper football match.
And, in what was perhaps the most shocking turn of all, Captain von Trapp—to the boundless joy of some and the mild exasperation of others—willingly joined their grand sporting endeavour.
“What are you playing today? Football? Fräulein Maria, always a surprise with you,” asked a smiling, Trachtenanzug-wearing captain emerging from the trees near the house onto the lawn where Maria had marked two imaginary goal posts.
Maria had imagined he would ask a few questions, exchange a few pleasantries, then return to his guests. She had not imagined this. Well, not entirely. The children had mentioned that he used to play football, even taught them how to play, but given the presence of the Viennese visitors, she assumed he would prioritize their company.
“Do you mind if I join you? I could alternate with the younger children, so they don’t tire too soon, and we could play a real match, the way it’s supposed to be.”
The children erupted in cheers. “Yay, Father!” “Come on, Father!” Their unbridled enthusiasm filled the air, but Maria felt momentarily paralyzed. Another surprise. Another shift in the Captain she thought she understood.
And then, to her dismay, his smile faltered as he seemed to take her silence for hesitation. That would not do. She found her voice, bright and warm. “But of course, Captain!” Then, with a teasing glint in her eyes, she added, “So, Austria against Italy?”
“Oh, Fräulein, you are going to regret it!”
Regret, however, was not what Maria felt when the Captain shrugged off his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. If there was a word for the sensation that swept over her, she certainly couldn’t name it. Astonishment? Appreciation for his dedication as a father? A flicker of something dangerously close to admiration? And the unavoidable acknowledgment that he looked... very different without a jacket.
Then he was moving again, playfully tackling first Friedrich, then Liesl, dodging their mock protests with a knowing ease, as though this was an old routine, something ingrained in their past. A glimpse of the man he used to be. The man Agathe had married.
Maria barely had time to process the thought before Kurt's pleading voice yanked her back into the present.
“Fräulein Maria, do something!”
She reacted instinctively, diving into the game with renewed energy.
“So, the Austrian team has come to learn some football from the Italians, I see. You are welcome, Fräulein!”
“Oh, Captain, you clearly have never seen Viennese football!” With that, she snatched the ball and sprinted away, laughter bubbling from her chest as the children howled in delight.
The Captain feigned offense. “Right, then! Teams! And let it be known that I intend to have my revenge for that slight upon my sporting prowess. A spirited match is the only way to settle this—and to show Fräulein Maria the true meaning of competition.”
As the children cheered, Maria met his eyes for a fleeting moment. There it was again: that warmth, that energy, that something she could neither define nor dismiss.
She had no idea that he had felt it too.
A while later, two very puzzled and disappointed Viennese socialites were making their way through the garden to look for their lost companion, drinks still in their hands, careful not to spill anything, or to stumble on the gravel path, or worse.
The voices and noises suggested what their minds had already partially guessed, but added the necessary piece of information they needed to locate said lost companion. So, they followed the noise.
“Well, well,” Elsa drawled, lazily sipping her drink, a few steps away from the spirited match: just enough to see, but not enough that their words would be heard clearly (as for the ball hitting them, then, that was left entirely to chance). “Look at him. Rolling up his sleeves, running around in the grass, all charming and dishevelled. If I had known all it took was a postulant and a football, I would have sent for both ages ago.”
Max hummed noncommittally, eyes following Georg as he dodged a particularly enthusiastic tackle from Friedrich. Elsa exhaled dramatically.
“I do hope he doesn’t ruin that shirt. It looks very good on him.”
Max gave her a look. “Well, try telling him that later. I know, I know, eligibility and companionship, not passion, but who knows… unless you’d prefer to wear hiking trousers like Fräulein Maria or tackle him like that instead.” He indicated the players briefly, very amused by the image of Georg and the governess wrestling for a ball.
The words came out in a hissing whisper, the anger and the need for quiet creating a strange, almost whistling effect. “Max, you are an absolute beast! Let me be absolutely clear: I want to be the next Baroness von Trapp; I do not want to seduce him…”
“Well, you will have to…”
She stopped him right there. “Max, a man of Georg’s status might be intrigued by someone like Fräulein Maria, might even believe himself in love with him, but he does not marry her sort. Ever. So why would I lower myself like…”
“Do you really think that Georg would seduce a young postulant he ‘believes he is in love with’ and not marry her? Because we are talking about Georg, not generic men of his status.”
“Max, he is a man!”
“I was under the impression you wanted to marry him because he is ‘not like the other men’! So why are you now accusing him of…”
“I meant that he wouldn't squander our fortune on... indiscretions, or subject me to that kind of scandal, that’s all! I don't think he's entirely without... masculine inclinations, but...”
“Elsa, you really don’t know Georg. Try to get to know him. That will help you get him to ask the question., of that I am sure.”
In that moment, Friedrich yelled, “HEY, UNCLE MAX! COME PLAY WITH US! IT’S MYSELF, LIESL, MARTHA AND FRÄULEIN MARIA AGAINST FATHER, LOUISA, KURT, BRIGITTA AND GRETL! WE NEED ONE MORE PLAYER!”
Max grinned at Elsa, stepped a little nearer, and said as loudly as possible, “Oh, thank you, but I would die after a minute.”
Georg, for his part, simply said during, “Oh, hello! I will rejoin you after the match.” Max gestured to Elsa as if to say I told you so, and Elsa scoffed.
That was the most interaction they got with the players.
Baroness von Schräder’s frustrating need for strategic regrouping and rethinking aside, all the pieces were finally in place, and the last days had foretold what villa Trapp would look like in the following weeks, with very few adjustments—and what adjustments!
The Captain, Maria, and the children were definitely the happiest of the bunch.
This didn’t mean everything was perfect. The children obviously needed some firmer words, sometimes. But the sweet routine of Maria waking up the children and planning the day with them, of both the Captain and Maria putting the children to bed, of alternating academic pursuits to singing, playing or simply talking continued.
The easy understanding between the Captain and Maria had simply become an automatism: most of the time, the two met somehow during the day and discussed or asked what was needed; only sometimes they needed to sit down in his study to make plans.
Despite their initial fear and prejudices, they discovered that they were each a very independent person glad to face an equally independent person, and that they liked to think with their own brain instead of letting other people or factors dictate what they should think or say.
A tiny exception in this case was the Captain’s request for play clothes made of apposite fabric, and for a minimum of decorum in what they wore in public, since having his children mistaken for street urchins was where he drew the line. Maria had acquiesced, his request being rather minimal: it was certain not the case to discuss a topic like “class differences and perceptions” with him (although she delighted in imagining the scene of such a hypothetic discussion).
For the rest, the Captain continued to esteem Maria’s approach, and she, in turn, was reassured that the Captain was a loving and committed father.
The Captain also continued joining in regularly for at least a match, a game or a short walk in the neighbourhood. He had to decline joining them for longer trips and hikes, but entrusted them to Maria willingly, especially after she had told him a little about her extensive experience in the mountains.
“I do love the mountains, too, Fräulein Maria, although they will never be like the sea to me. But I understand how you feel,” he had said. “It is probably not different, in the end.”
“I have never seen the sea, so I cannot say. But… yes, the love for something the nature offers us is… Perhaps, in the end, it’s the same, the way it calls to you.”
“You have never seen the sea? Fräulein, you cannot take vows if you have not seen it!”
“Captain, you make it sound as if it were a pivotal experience for my faith and my eligibility!”
“Oh, but it is, Fräulein,” he said with a short, incredulous laugh. “You simply have to experience it once in your life. And you have to know all you will be giving up before deciding if you really want to give it up.”
That warmth that they both had started feeling sometimes and that made its appearance in several disparate positive interactions between them was back again, just filling their chests and making them feel better than ever. It was the Captain’s look and words that stirred that feeling in her, and she wondered why it was; but for him, it was her intelligence, her simple but striking beauty no matter what she wore, it was whatever she said, whatever she did. With a knowingness born of experience, he admitted that she was an incredible woman, and that he had the privilege of seeing her every day, to admire her from up close.
The Captain continued, trying to regain control of his thoughts: “Maybe you will not like it. Maybe you will like it, but still prefer the mountains. Maybe you will love it more than the mountains,” he declared with a quick upward flick of the brows.
“Now, Captain, let’s not get carried away!” Maria’s laugh was as incredulous as his previous was, until he joined her in her laughter, surprised by how easily their joy echoed each other’s.
The resident staff had not been too busy to notice how things were changing in the villa; however, the demands by the two guests and by the Captain being at home continuously made them feel their weight, and the occasions for a night meeting with talks and drinks were fewer.
Nevertheless, they made the most out of their meetings, especially because the Baroness herself was rather… inspiring.
One of the first evening after her arrival, the first impressions were exchanged.
“She is a beautiful and sophisticated woman, but there is something lacking…” observed Betty.
“Betty, come on, don’t be jealous! You don’t play in the same league!” replied Trudi.
“No, no, it’s not jealousy. She looks like someone who has the will, the ability and the means to be glamorous, but it’s like there is no passion, no soul!”
“Passion? Well, I have overheard her mockingly calling Maria ‘Lady Lovely Nun’ with Herr Detweiler. How is that for passion? Passionately hating on poor Maria!”
“OOOOOH, so… since Maria isn’t here tonight… spill! I want to hear all about it!” Betty was curious, but also slightly worried.
“Well, I don’t have much to go by, but to me it seems like she really doesn’t like seeing a beautiful and intelligent governess around the house, charming the children and, well… I would not say the Captain has ever been indifferent to her, to be honest.”
“That sounds dangerously like gossip about our employer. And yes, I don’t think the Captain ever ignored her. I mean, who had? She has always made her opinions known loud and clear, and she definitely wasn’t scared of him. They did have a few interesting exchanges, like at dinner, talking about school matters and all…
She, on the other hand… I am glad they seem to have come to an understanding, because sometimes I had the impression her feelings towards the Captain weren’t exactly friendly until a few days ago.”
“Well, considering her role, with the children and all, I doubt she could have seen the more positive sides of him. But I am glad he is now back to the man he was, at least according to our Resi.”
Resi hadn’t contributed at all to the discussion, and her face and body language feigned offence at the gossip about the Captain. However, she really wanted to know more. “Yes, gossiping about the master is bad, girls. A behaviour to refrain from. But what is this about Maria?”
Of course, when Maria did come by, the tone was rather different.
“So, Maria, how is it going? It looks like you brought heaven to the villa!”
Maria smiled, as usual. Sometimes she wondered how she could not be in pain from all the smiling that occurred as of late. “Well, I would leave Heaven to the Lord! As for what happened here: I am so happy to see a father and his children reunited.”
“And what do you think of the Baroness and Herr Detweiler?”
“Oh, to be honest, we don’t really interact much. They are often with the Captain; we meet mostly during meals, mainly at dinner. We often sing something for them, and they appreciate it. Herr Detweiler sometimes says something funny, although the Captain seems to be always very vigilant of what he might say or not say!”
“Oh, Maria, I think Herr Detweiler keeps himself in check around you and the children. He definitely jokes a lot with us… but nothing that a postulant might want to hear,” explained Betty with a wink.
Herr Detweiler and the Baroness probably had the most… complicated time of all.
The Baroness took every chance to be with the Captain, alone or with Max. She enjoyed being accompanied to town for some shopping and a few visits to the museums. She even let herself convince to take walks through the garden and in the neighbourhood, all to “enjoy nature”, as Georg said. She did appreciate the children singing for them, Lady Lovely Nun notwithstanding. And even Lady Lovely Nun could sing charmingly.
Max and Elsa mostly enjoyed their long-standing friendship made of caustic remarks, gossip, strategy, and power in society when the Captain was busy. The caustic remarks and strategy part of their talk was often focused on Elsa’s intense campaign as new Baroness von Trapp.
“I did tell him the bit about the shirt, you know,” confessed Elsa to her partner-in-crime. “He told me he has several shirts of that kind, and so even if he ruined one, he would have a replacement. All with the same tone he would use with his mother, may her soul rest in peace!”
Max sputtered his coffee. “Oh, Elsa, I am sorry!” He burst into full-fledged laughter, then tried to restore his state of (relative) seriousness upon noticing Elsa’s murderous stare. “I guess we really should confine your compliments to the very aseptic realm of the ‘You look so handsome in this high-society thing you are wearing for my high-society thing with very high-society people’. But really, I don’t understand him: if I ever even suspected that you might be ready and available, I’d marry you on the spot! A rich and beautiful society queen…”
“Max, don’t you think the situation is already dire enough?”
“I am sorry, Elsa, really! And where is he now?”
“Playing with the children.”
“Mh-hm.”
“Don’t make me say it!”
“I am not, darling. You know what I was thinking? That we could invite the Fräulein to stay with us once after putting the children to bed. Wouldn’t you like to get to know her better, and to get to know Georg better, since he seems to be more open around her?”
“Oh, Max, now I recognise you! Know your enemy, turn your weaknesses into strengths! Also, she will definitely embarrass herself.”
“Have you been reading some of our strategy books from the Naval Academy out of boredom? And… why would she embarrass herself?”
“Let’s just say… I have a feeling. That girl has been in the middle of things in Vienna—I doubt it was just books and sports keeping her busy.”
Max looked perplexed, but acquiesced.
Poor Maria was therefore invited by Max and the Baroness in person to stay for a while after putting the children to bed, quite a contrast to her evenings with her friends in the staff, or those of prayer, or reading.
The fact that the Baroness voluntarily chose to watch Maria and the Captain arrive together in the sitting room, back from the children’ apartments, was a sure sign that she really wanted to play this card. But after all, Georg was going to sit on the divan with her. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless, at least in her mind.
“Sit down, dear. I fear we haven’t really got to know each other. I suppose seven children are enough to make you long for the peace and quiet of your room when the day is over.” The Baroness gestured to the place next to Max. “But after all, you are an important member of the staff, and you are old enough to join us. How old are you?”
“Twenty-two, Baroness.”
“Only just! So young!” Max noticed how Elsa drawled on that second exclamation, and thought she would soon let her ‘Lady Lovely Nun’ slip. He was definitely up for a little bit of mayhem. A pity he had not watched Georg to see how he had reacted.
Max knew his moment had come (or so he thought). “Fräulein, what should I pour for you? Brandy? Schnaps?”
“Oh, no, no, Herr Detweiler! You are very kind, but since I am still trying to become a nun, I am refraining from alcohol.”
Max and Elsa’s ears pricked up at that. Max took the chance, while pouring her a lemonade. “You are still trying to become a nun. That is an interesting statement. How does this exactly work? Georg told us Nonnberg sent you, so I assumed it was just a matter of… study? Preparation? But apparently that’s different.”
“Oh, I am a postulant, someone who aspires to become a nun. We do study and prepare ourselves, but we also have to take our time to think about our calling. In fact, I am to use my time here as governess to reflect on secular life as compared to what I experienced at Nonnberg. I have a weekly meeting with the Mother Abbess to talk things over.”
Max stole a glance at both Elsa and Georg. The former let just a tiny twitch of her right eyebrow escape at the mention of ‘reflect on secular life’—always the queen of self-control. The latter was slightly leaning on the armrest—in the exact opposite direction as Elsa— and was watching and listening to the Fräulein intently.
Max gleefully commented, “I hope you are not complaining about us, Fräulein! Something like ‘one evening, they forced me to skip my prayers and drink with them!’”
Georg threw his ‘Remember who is the master’-stare at him. Maria took the joke as it was, and giggled politely. “Herr Detweiler, I have been a girl and a young woman in Vienna and around Austria for a while before entering Nonnberg. I am not as bashful and sensitive as you think!”
Oh, that was interesting. Elsa stole Max’s turn. “And, Fräulein, what are your most treasured memories of Vienna, or of your time prior to your religious calling?”
“Oh, Baroness, I would not be able to say. I managed to attend many concerts—classical, religious, and jazz. I loved sports, too, and hikes, as you all well know. I have many treasured memories in Vienna and all around Austria.”
“And your family supported you in all of your many and varied exploits?”
“Oh, no, no, Baroness. I am an orphan. I lived in Tyrol until I was ten, then I was sent to my guardian in Vienna, an uncle. I, well, we didn’t exactly get along well, so I worked during summers and qualified for scholarships. I left home at fifteen, you see. Also, there are many free recreational options in Vienna, if you look closely enough.”
Max clearly noticed Georg’s look of sympathy at the mention of her being an orphan, and he had thought he would stop at that…
… and of course he did speak. “Oh, Fräulein Maria, I had no idea! It must have been hard for you, losing both parents…” The looks between them bore witness to an unspoken understanding, where the unsaid sounded clear in their heads.
“I got by well enough. There’s a freedom in making your own way. In my case, I know it’s probably strange, but… it gave me the courage to live to the fullest.” The looks continued, Elsa was reaching for one of her cigarettes (bad, bad sign!), and Max decided to bring the conversation back on track.
“Locking yourself up in a convent does not sound like living to the fullest to me, my dear Fräulein!” Max accompanied his quip with a wink, and got another threatening stare from Georg in return.
Elsa gladly took up where Max was forced to leave. “So, Fräulein, what would you categorise as ‘living to the fullest’, then?” She grinned rather maliciously, airing her cigarette in a rather elegant way. “I could picture you in front of the Parliament on the 12 November 1918, proclamation of the Republic. I cannot imagine you locked up in a classroom, or bent on your beloved books on that day.”
That was mean, Elsa, thought Max.
Maria did change face colour a few times, but then, rationality prevailed. She had done nothing wrong (although her aristocratic companions probably didn’t need to know that she had joined a group marching on from Ottakring, together with her friends from the Social Democratic Party) “As you say, Baroness, that was a historical moment that no one could miss witnessing. So… yes, I was there. But don’t worry, I wasn’t one of the people holding the banner ‘Hurrah for the socialist Republic’. You can rest safe in your bed at night, Baroness.”
That was good, Fräulein, both Max and Georg thought.
“Oh, don’t worry, I imagined a… fiercer position would have made your admission to the convent a little harder. Not impossible, no: after all conversions do happen. Also, I don’t imagine Georg would ever hire someone who might be a threat to him and his family.”
Maria tried to control her blush at the mention of a “conversion”, and also felt partially sorry to talk about the proclamation of the Republic, knowing that the Captain probably did not recall those days with fond feelings. So, she tried to steer the conversation away from it as best as she could.
“Baroness, one of the things I have learned so far is that not everything is neatly divided in those categories people love to use continuously. You might have some inclination for more democracy, workers’ and women’s rights, and still be a good devote Christian, despite what the Christian-Social Party might want you to believe. Likewise, having these inclinations does not make one a killer of aristocrats.” And then Maria went full in, risking a lot and hoping to harvest at least some semblance of agreement. “I have even heard that you, Captain, gained your first decoration by disobeying orders. If that is not proof that people are more intricated that it might seem…”
Max and Georg laughed together at that, then the Captain replied. “That is definitely not a secret, Fräulein Maria. I would also like to add that I would have been court-martialled if I had failed my chase of the Léon Gambetta. But I agree with the spirit of it: I loved the Navy, I loved being an officer, and I loved the monarchy, but I don’t believe in denying people basic rights and food, and I also believe orders can be disobeyed if there is a better alternative.” Yet another look of understanding passed between Maria and the Captain. Elsa’s face was unreadable, but Max could notice in the way she puffed at her cigarette how she wanted this conversation to end.
“Captain, you almost sound like a rebel, careful! We have established that I am the only rebel here: I witness historical events, and I am on probation as a postulant because the Mother Superior thinks I need to reflect carefully.”
Finally, Elsa saw the real opportunity. “Oh, dear Maria, if there is anything I could do to help you, I would be glad to! As far as I know, many important families in Salzburg do appreciate you as a teacher, so that might be a start! After all, you know very well that, by law, you could not marry and keep working as a teacher, for example…”
Max acknowledged Elsa’s new hit, a true master strike. The Fräulein had pushed herself in a corner with her statement. A pity, because she had fared very well against the undisputed Viennese salon queen.
As for Georg… well, that was a rather different matter. The problem was not just the Fräulein’s outward beauty (Georg had been constantly surrounded by beautiful women all his life, after all), but how her entire person resonated with his old friend.
Max had seen this before. And this time… the world had changed, and so had the lady. Elsa was standing near a fire, and, sadly, she didn’t know a thing about fires, since she had kept away from them all life.
From that point on, the Baroness was more careful with her (and Max’s) ideas, and kept to the usual superficial interactions at mealtimes or during singing.
Alas, singing did cause another challenge to be issued, and she chastised herself for not having foreseen it. She should have.
The children and Maria had offered, as after-dinner entertainment, to sing a playful (but chaste) yodel about a lonely goatherd finding love and parallelly enact what the song was about (with the help of a few props, which they had probably made together). The performance amused Max and Georg immensely. Her? Not so much.
Lady Lovely Nun could sing, and how. It was as if, finally, she had unleashed her entire potential, her voice soaring with a newfound freedom. She could also direct those seven children in a more complicated number than their usual folk song. They were all wearing some imitation of a theatre actor’s make up, and — somehow — she had even ended up looking more beautiful than ever, as if her usual dinner attire wasn’t already enough to show her tall and striking figure.
And Georg and Max… had noticed. Not that her own figure was something to be ashamed of, but… she wasn’t twenty-two and an enchanting singer (Maria was enchanting. Even she had to admit it. Oh, how the mighty have fallen…)
The Captain had indeed enjoyed himself very much, and could only think all the performers were adorable. All of them. Maria was truly an admirable woman, both in personality and in appearance: it wasn’t the first time he had admitted it in his head. And his thoughts led him to stare at her way too long, even for a simple spectator of a play he had enjoyed.
As for her part, she did feel the Captain’s stare on herself, and felt her usual warmth. She realised she had to get used to that feeling, because it was not going away. And it was… pleasant, after all. She lowered her gaze for a moment, only to glance up again, unable to resist checking if he was still looking. He was.
As if that had not been enough, the children then gathered to whisper and conspire, then went to Maria to communicate their apparent plan.
“The verdict is unanimous, Captain!” and Maria picked up Liesl’s—his—guitar only to offer it to him. “Your turn, Captain! We have waited long enough!”
The Captain looked at them all with mock outrage. “I knew you would conspire, one day or another. Who has betrayed me?”
Liesl stepped forward. “Father, I remember you were so good. And Fräulein Maria is right: we have waited long enough to hear from you!”
“So, I have no chance, hey?” He looked everyone in the eyes, only to end up on Maria’s. Again.
“Absolutely not, Captain. It’s a mutiny. Now…walk the plank!”
“Fräulein Maria, have you been reading pirate’s novels recently?”
“How do you think I prepared myself for my assignment here?” She winked at him, in one of their established signs of friendship.
The Captain shook his head, took the guitar, and—after a short reflection— started singing a folk song about Austria, its nature and beauty. A love song to his country.
Maria, who had, after all, issued the verdict, kept looking at him encouragingly, and when he finally crossed her eyes, he locked with hers. She even mouthed a few words with him, and when he was finished…, well they exchanged their usual smile, ignoring everyone for a few instants, all while Max downed his second brandy of the evening and Elsa finished her last cigarette.
As the Baroness was trying to think about how to react, Louisa stood up from the floor where the children were sitting and exclaimed: “Oh, Father, and there is also the violin! Wait here!” She then ran away for a moment, while the Captain was trying to protest “No, no, no, the violin needs a lot of practice!”
But Liesl did not show mercy. “You had enough practice in your life. I am sure you can manage to play something. Besides, once you take it in your arms, I know you are not going to forget about it anymore!”
Maria did not show mercy either. “When you walk the plank, you walk the plank, Captain. Until the end.”
Those women will be the end of me, he thought spontaneously.
Louisa came back with the violin, and Maria and Liesl assisted him with their guitars for the tuning. Louisa also added, as if to excuse her role, “We just want to hear you play a few notes, a tune. You don’t need to play an entire concert.” All the children nodded.
He turned the violin over in his hands, fingers brushing over the wood as if reacquainting himself with an old friend. It had been years. What if he made a fool of himself? But there was no way out now. With a sigh, he lifted it to his shoulder. When he picked up the instrument, he looked at his audience, and fished in his memory for a memorable tune he might be able to play.
He then played the prelude of Wiener Blut, the waltz Viennese Blood: a moving prelude carrying the main theme from the composition. If the first try was a little uncertain, the second did move his listeners, with that Viennese passion that characterised Strauss’s melody.
Maria was the first to applaud, and there might have been more stares—maybe even a duet—if only the Baroness had not just had an inspiration (and thanked Strauss’s spirit for it) that would put an end to the evening before Georg and Lady Lovely Nun started quoting poetry at each other, with the children as an enraptured jury.
“Georg, why don’t we really fill this house with music? Why don’t we have a grand and glorious party, with dancing and all of your friends, and a few of mine of course?”
Baroness Elsa von Schräder could not sing and play as well as them, but she could play power games better than other people.
To throw a ‘grand and glorious party’, preparations had to start early, so the poor staff was thrown into chaos. All non-resident staff was contacted to be prepared to work on the day of the ball as well as on the day prior and after it. Betty’s Anton, glad it would be a Saturday, gladly answered the call.
Invitations were also sent in advance, and Georg contacted his brothers-in-law too, who took the opportunity to visit the family for a while and, in truth, to meet the miracle governess whom their nephews and nieces so loved.
So, not many days after the Baroness’s idea, Maria was introduced to Agathe’s brothers—the Captain’s old friends.
“Fräulein, may I introduce my brothers-in-law, Robert and Frank? The children call them Uncle Bobby and Uncle Frankie.”
Maria briefly observed how the two were friendly, how they greeted the children affectionately, and how the children were affectionate in return. . Their Fiume-bred charm—half-British, half-Austrian, with a dash of Istrian flair—did seem a little more reserved than Herr Detweiler’s, but they did seem to fit in with the Captain’s humour and Herr Detweiler’s chaotic approach to social life.
Maria was way off on her evaluation of the two bachelors, though, mistaking Max’s conscious choice to be outrageous all the time (or almost) for a simple difference in personality. The brothers were among Max’s friends, too, and not just because of their ties to Fiume: they had their own quirks.
She completely missed the looks of interest and curiosity that the two brothers shot at her, as well as a few questioning looks they exchanged with their pal Max.
Martha then added, “These are our real uncles, not like Uncle Max!” and everybody laughed, Max included.
“I am going to remember that at Christmas, my dear lady,” he shot back.
The guests were then sent to refresh themselves and invited to regroup on the back terrace later for afternoon drinks.
Later, on the terrace, the Baroness was finally holding court, the Whiteheads being old acquaintances of her as well, not to mention two eligible bachelors who frequented salons in all Europe. Her chosen topic was, well, Maria. Power meant control; and controlling the conversation about Lady Lovely Nun was essential.
“Oh, yes, she is truly an amazing girl! Her faith is very strong, and her calling as both a nun and as a teacher is unquestionable.” Elsa announced.
Bobby and Frankie nodded uncommittedly in silence, with a quick glance at Max, who shrugged.
“She truly has a gift with children: she has, apparently, a method, she has patience, she has the necessary energy to do all that’s necessary… aaaaaaand… she has a black eye!”
Elsa had uttered the last words shifting her stare slightly as soon as the object of her praise had appeared in her field of view, and now everyone saw Maria in front of them with, indeed, an eye swelling and turning purple.
“Fräulein Maria, what happened to you this time?” The Baroness asked with her usual poise.
“Fräulein Maria, are you all right?” The Captain asked with earnest worry in his voice.
“Well, you see, Friedrich and Kurt got into a fight, and I tried to separate them… well, now I have learned that it does not work, because now they are fighting again… over who hit me! Oh, and Louisa and Brigitta are chanting ‘Fight, fight, fight!’. Never seen Liesl, Martha, and Gretl this indignant so far! Captain, I fear I might need your help this time!”
The Captain opened his mouth several times, trying to decide what to say first of the many things that went through his mind, then he decided that action, rather than words, would better fit the situation. So, he stood up, took his handkerchief out of his pocket, checked if it was good to go, then picked up some ice cubes from the bowl, put them in his handkerchief, and rounded the table to reach Fräulein Maria.
“Here, Fräulein Maria, put this on your eye immediately, it should help. How do you feel? Can you lead me to the children?” He pressed the handkerchief on Maria’s eye without even thinking, and Maria let him do it.
“Of course, Captain! You are very kind, but it’s nothing! I will ask Resi to help me whip up one of our remedies from my hiking days…” The Captain had taken her arm, and they made for their destination.
“Fräulein Maria, forgive me, but I think we sailors have the best remedies for a black eye. We are known for brawls, as you might know,” he managed to joke despite the situation, his smile a little tense but sincere.
“We will see. Anyhow… Captain, I agree we have to be very firm on this, but please don’t shout at them.”
“What would you have me do?” The Captain was curious to understand what had prompted the question, and what she expected of him.
“Talk to them. Of course, they need a punishment and a scolding, but no shouting at them, please”
“Why do you fear I would shout at them? I tend not to do that, unless it’s really necessary. Not even in the Navy did I particularly enjoy shouting. The boys are not going to get out of their punishment anyway, believe me! Are you with me on this?”
“Of course, Captain!”
Going on their quest for the restoration of peace, they had left behind them a rather flabbergasted table who didn’t know how to react. Elsa, puffing her cigarette, was looking at her lemonade glass as if it were a complex scientific problem, Max was pondering whether a touch of brandy would enhance the lemonade, and the Whitehead brothers were just pondering what to say or do, feeling sorry for what the scene meant for the hopes of their common friend Elsa: they had been among her supporters when she had suddenly appeared as marital option, after all.
Bobby tried the most obvious topic to deflect the tension. “Ah, boys fighting! This does bring back memories, hey, Frank?”
“Ah, yes, the good old times! I beat you every single time!”
“How times have changed!”
Max interjected: “Don’t tell me you have picked up boxing!”
“Bets, Max, bets,” explained Frank. And Bobby immediately added, “And Frank loses all the time to me.”
“Aargh, how I love rich people! High stakes?”
“Sometimes, sometimes not.”
Max turned to Elsa. “Darling, do you bet sometimes? It could be fun!”
Her teeth were almost gritting while answering: “It doesn’t seem likely I would be successful.”
Temptation took over Max, too amused by the absurdity of the situation. “Speaking of bets, I think I have a marvellous idea for a new theatre play, set in Salzburg…”
Frank immediately picked up on the hint. “Let me guess, a satire about the absurdity of life in the Austrian province, especially in aristocratic households!” Bobby raised the stakes, as usual. “Count us in as backers!”
Elsa took a slow, deliberate drag from her cigarette. Then, with deadly sweetness: “I will be sure to let every single member of the Social Democratic and of the Communist Party in town have a ticket for the premiere; all on me, of course. Then, I will wait for the reviews of both the play and the premiere. Especially the premiere.” She lit another one of her cigarettes as if it were a burning stake.
The day of the ball couldn’t come fast enough.
Notes:
The scene with the black eye and the ice was one of the first ideas I had for ODC’s falling in love.
Are you ready for the ball? Next chapter will feature the last film canon lines, then it’s all uncharted territory. So, expect anything from the ball!
Chapter 7: A grand and glorious party (or: the battlefield)
Summary:
At the Villa Trapp's grand ball, passions ignite and political tensions simmer. Love and ambition drive the characters, creating a battlefield of the heart and mind. Max, the 'Master of Mayhem,' stirs the pot, while Betty the maid proves to be an unexpected force. The Whitehead Bros. observe it all, ready to take bets on the romantic and familial entanglements.
Genres: romance, historical/political, comedy. Indirect and tasteful mention of mature themes.
With the revisited Ländler scene (featuring the characters’ inner thoughts), we say goodbye to the last element from film canon. The story will go its own way, and I promise you are going to love it if you love ODC and the children, no matter what your favourite fandom tropes are.
Notes:
Gitti= nickname for Brigitta
The Monarchy = Austrians often refer to the Habsburg era as “the Monarchy”.
NSDAP = German abbreviation of the National Socialist Party. It's important to note that National Socialism employed manipulative tactics, such as presenting a false image of progressiveness to women, to gain support, contrasting with Christian-conservative brands of fascism such as Austrofascism. They also falsely presented themselves as modern rather than traditionalist. This is essential to understand a few exchanges in the chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Oh, they are all so beautiful!” Louise piped up first—surprise, not Liesl.
“Yes, they are,” Liesl murmured, ballroom lights dancing in her eyes.
Brigitta chimed in: “The women, especially, look so beautiful!
Kurt dared to disagree. “I think they look ugly”.
“You just say that because you’re just scared of them.” Louisa shot back. A classic.
“Silly, only grown-up men are scared of women.” Kurt’s barb, sharp for an eleven-year-old boy, came from sneaking Liesl’s romance novels (barely endured) and earwigging Uncle Bobby, Franky, and Max’s unguarded chatter.
Gretl tugged them back. “I think the men look beautiful!”
Louisa blinked at her baby sister. “How’d you know?” Gretl tilted her head—I just do—no words needed.
Liesl drifted to the terrace’s heart, playing debutante: nod, curtsey (Agathe’s lessons held), then waltz steps, dreamy.
“Liesl, who are you dancing with?” Brigitta pressed.
“Nobody,” she sighed, lost in the romance of it.
“Oh, yes, you are.” Gitti missed nothing.
In his best imitation of his idolised Father, Friedrich tapped on her shoulder and asked, “May I have this dance?”
“I'd be delighted, young man.” The others edged closer in silence, watching the pair twirl.
Fräulein Maria slipped onto the terrace, catching the odd sight. “Why didn't you children tell me you could dance?”
Kurt grinned, cheeky as ever. “We were afraid you'd make us all dance together. The von Trapp Family Dancers.” He spun a pirouette, siblings cackling.
Meanwhile, the waltz had faded: the Konzertmeister rose for applause, then struck a slower ¾ tune, snaring the kids’ ears.
“What’s that they are playing?”
“It's the Ländler, an Austrian folk dance,” Maria explained.
Kurt pounced. “Show me!”
Maria hesitated. “Oh, Kurt I haven't danced since I was a little girl.” A white lie: she had definitely danced it as she was about nineteen or twenty.
“Oh, you’ll remember,” he teased, then softened: “Please?”
“Well…”
“Please!” Maria’s heart melted at Kurt’s sweetness. If they were my children, I’d spoil them, I fear!
She took a decision. “All right. Come on over here.” Kurt followed her instructions.
“Now you bow and I curtsy”
“Like this?”
“Fine. Now we go for a little walk. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three, step together. Now, step hop, step hop.” Not too bad. “Now turn under.” That wasn’t it at all! “Not quite.”
Captain Georg von Trapp, checking on the brood, paused at the terrace door unnoticed by the group—stunned at first by what he saw, then amused. Maria leading Kurt in a Ländler? Typical. The tall governess fumbled with the lad, another Kurt caper. Smirking, he tugged on dance gloves: time to show the boy how it’s done, he thought.
“This way—hop step, hop. And under.” A tangle: Maria’s height dwarfed Kurt’s eleven years. “Kurt, we’ll have to practice,” she sighed as Georg tapped his son’s head. “Do allow me, will you?”
Kurt nodded: he was a sweet lad, brawls with Friedrich and black eyes aside. Georg patted him, then offered Maria his gloved hand, elegant and sure.
She took it without hesitation.
He led her through the following steps effortlessly and flawlessly on both parts. In the back of his mind, he was reminded of her love for any possible sport on earth. He also took note of her smiles, signs of her enjoyment. And he had been smiling throughout the piece, too.
Then the steps brought them a little closer, and Maria suddenly started avoiding looking at him for a while. The firebrand who’d faced him down, bashful?
Another thought crossed his mind, when Maria lifted the sides of her skirt with a graceful swoop, the fabric fluttering in time with the music. Maria in Dirndl, in her native Tyrol, dancing at a local fair. Smiling, of course.
As he was turned away for a moment, waiting for her to rejoin him, his smile disappeared for a while, only to reappear upon finding her hand again.
Suddenly, they found themselves as close as they had never been—accidental or sportive clashes notwithstanding—, and none of the dancers could have explained what, exactly had happened, or how, except that they were so caught up in the moment that they forgot to smile. Their bodies touched, their eyes locked—his had never left her—and, for a second, nothing else existed, only them. Not even the dance, forgotten.
Captain Georg von Trapp knew in that moment.
Maria, confused, pulled away from him and continued staring at him in silence. The Captain could read all of her questions in her eyes, and ached to answer them one by one.
A blush, an endearing, enticing blush appeared on her cheeks. She must have felt it, because she covered her cheeks with her hand and said, as an explanation of sort, “I don't remember anymore.”
Not a lie, this time. She had danced before, but never like this. Never with someone who made her forget she was dancing, who made her stop breathing and feel only an encompassing warmth, far beyond the tender warmth she had felt so far. What is happening to me?
“Your face is all red.” Brigitta would be given hell by Liesl for that about an hour later, during their regular nightly von Trapp meeting. The Captain would steal her remark for his own much later, to be used in private moments. But in that moment, she was convinced she was just being helpful.
“Is it?” Maria was back to lying. “I don't suppose I'm used to dancing.” Third lie of the evening.
The younger children might have even believed this one.
But the Captain knew, Liesl was starting to have strong suspicions, and…
“Why, that was beautifully done.” A pause. “What a lovely couple you make.” Oh, the Baroness knew, too.
An embarrassed Captain saved a mortified and momentarily non-functional Maria with a strategic “Yes, well… it's time the children said good night.”
“Yes. We'll be in the hall in a minute. We have something special prepared. Right?”
He should have expected it from Fräulein Maria. Maria. The children all confirmed, and ran away with her.
He, on the other hand, had to lead Elsa away from the place that had sanctioned their destinies, back to the ballroom, trying to ignore the conversation they would need to have soon.
“All that needless worrying, Georg. You thought you wouldn't find a friend at the party.” Smooth, Elsa, smooth.
Deflect, Georg! “A bit chilly out tonight, isn't it?”
“Oh, I don't know. It seemed rather warm to me.”
She knows. All of it.
Luckily, the main object of his thoughts saved him from another concealed attack by announcing that “the children of captain von Trapp wish to say goodnight to you!”
What followed was a well-executed song, accompanied by a funny, endearing dance to homage the guests.
His heart was full of love and admiration for the children… and the woman who had taught und directed them.
Some older noblewomen approached him immediately to congratulate him on his children, followed soon by other guest. He hoped to be able to consider Max and his chattering about festivals as simple background noise, but, alas, Max made a move he hadn’t expected.
“She has to join the party!”
Partially hidden by a column and a few guests, Frankie and Bobby stopped in their tracks at Max’s outrageous suggestion, not wanting to miss a second of it. They were holding court near the stairs, and they tried to discreetly fend off any tug to mingle further to try to approach the group near Georg.
Max muttered something about Fräulein Maria being the key to securing the children as a novelty for the Festival, a singing group made all of one family. It sounded stupid, outrageous, and very Max.
The Captain tried to give his assent without showing his cards too much, which wasn’t an easy task to accomplish in that moment. “You can if you want it, Fräulein.” Friendly, neutral, lets her choose, lets her know she is welcome.
Despite Elsa’s murderous stare, Max added “I insist, you will be my dinner partner!” Frankie poked Bobby in his ribs and said in a whisper, “This is getting better and better!” He sounded like a child excited by a new toy, which, after all, he was.
They joined the group in time to hear Georg say “You can change, we will wait”, mindlessly nodded at the praise to the children and at the kind thoughts about their sister… and, as they had loosely predicted, assisted to a wonderful scene.
The Baroness, always poised and elegant, laid a cool hand on Maria’s forearm. “My dear, I would love to help choose what you wear tonight.”
“Oh, thank you, Baroness, you are very kind,” Maria said, all earnest glow.
Betty, gliding past with the champagne tray (deliberately within earshot to monitor the Baroness's behaviour towards Maria), caught every word—and Elsa’s murderous stare at Max. She didn’t miss a beat and cut in.
“Oh, Baroness, you’re too kind! I’d be delighted to help Maria dress!”
The Baroness blinked, composure slipping. “I am afraid I do not follow you.”
“Of course, Baroness,” Betty chirped. “I’m a maid: dressing Maria’s my job! But it’s smashing of you to offer… er, provide the dress. Got gloves, bit of make-up, curling iron perhaps? Don’t fret: I’ll clean it all, pop it back, good as new. You’ll not regret it, I swear!”
Of all the things to happen… “Yes… well, thank you… Gitti?”
“Betty,” she replied with a smile. “Well, Bettina, if you prefer. They call me Betty instead of Tina because I loooove the cinema, and music, and that would be like my stage name. You know, American-sounding.”
Elsa’s astonishment tipped to flabbergast. She could pull rank—snap at the maid, the governess—but Georg seemed to be rather protective of his staff.
No, let Lady Lovely Nun prance in and flounder: high society was Elsa’s turf, not some sporty psalm-singer’s.
One last jab. “What about the champagne?”
Betty glanced round, waved Anton over. “Anton will mind it for half an hour, Baroness; no worries. We’d never let the Captain down.”
Maria, silent till now, piped up: “I think we’d best hurry: the Captain’s held dinner for me.”
Elsa steeled herself, plotting traps from staircase to bedroom. She trailed them, half-listening as Betty chattered: “Just a dab of make-up, Maria, nothing wild, you’re a postulant!”—and sized her up—“You’re taller than the Baroness, but it’ll do!”—and ditched heels—“Your flats will shine up grand!”—and cooed over hair—“A quick iron, and you’ll be a flapper, the ball’s glamour queen!”
Elsa nearly barked orders, Georg’s staff and sensibilities be damned. Why was a maid directing everything?
First stop: her room. Betty’s “May I please…” and “Would you mind…” danced with respect, but she rifled dresses and gloves, nattering on. “This’ll fit, oh, this won’t!”
She tugged out the red dress: silk, deep red fading to fuchsia at a trailing hem, low neck and thin straps agleam with sequined swirls. Elegant, revealing: not Pigalle, but no nun’s frock. Few women would dare it.
“Baroness, it’s perfect!” Betty beamed. “Longer, so it’ll fit Maria like a glove! These gloves too—elbow-length, smashing! I swear I’ll tend it all, return it pristine. If not, I’ll dip into my wedding fund. Anton won’t mind!”
She weighed refusing. What could happen? Staff might salt her cognac, or Maria would turn up in sackcloth, Georg and Max prying why. She decided against it: much easier to let Lady Lovely Nun trip over herself.
“Of course, take what you need.”
Betty scooped dress and gloves, nudged Maria: “Grab the make-up, the iron!” and bolted.
“Where are you going?”
“Maria’s room, to freshen her up! Baroness, you can go back to the party! I’ll sort her quick, promise!”
Elsa suspected that she had just been thoroughly outmanoeuvred by a maid.
The Whitehead brothers were still in the hall, near the stairs, always mingling, but their eyes and ears stayed sharp for Fräulein Maria’s return.
Elsa had swept back alone. Frankie’s grin said it all: “Rather promising, that.”
They tracked Max too—poised near the banister, itching for the governess—and Georg, fussing over his flag’s spot while “duty” kept him hovering for the same Fräulein, ready to nudge the staff on dinner.
Obviously, duty. What else?
The brothers smirked—they’d sussed the room spot-on—when Maria appeared at the balcony’s edge. Even from there, she was a vision. Betty had clearly raided Elsa’s wardrobe, draping her in high-society glamour.
She took a step—Betty’s murmur urging her on—fingers brushing the grand oak banister, then steadying as she descended, courage building.
Max noticed her first: his jaw dropped, silence rippling out. Heads turned slow, then fast—Elsa mid-sip, guests mid-chat. Georg lagged, lost in flag-fidgeting, till the hush made him turn around, eyes wide, mouth ajar.
Her short hair was coiffed: flapper-sharp, curls tamed to frame her face. The dress—a deep red silk that bled into fuchsia at the hem—clung to her curves, its low neckline baring shapely shoulders, thin straps glinting with sequined swirls. Nothing excessive: just enough to turn heads, crafted for a baroness but worn by a postulant. Elbow-length white gloves lent her elegance as she stood, spine straight, on the Villa Trapp’s grand banister stair. She gripped the polished oak once, then let go, uncertain but bold.
Bobby, lurking by the landing, grinned: “I’d wager Betty sold her on it: ‘All the rage, Maria, everyone’s wearing these!’”
Frankie nudged Bobby, glee alight. “Look at Max: can’t fathom he’s nabbed a stunner for dinner! Stroke’s coming. And Georg? Staring like a starved pup, practically salivating.”
“Max ought to tell him to pack it in,” Bobby quipped. “Salzburg and Vienna’s lot will gossip like mad: hell of a mess to hush up.”
The Captain would not have heard a word anyway—ears deaf, pulse alive.
The Ländler had bared it: he was utterly, irrevocably in love with Fräulein Maria, her confusion a shy echo, not indifference. She’d snared him from the start—her fire, her mind—but that dress, descending the banister, lit a different flame.
Poets would probably talk of it as the fire in his loin being rekindled, of passion as some convoluted metaphor to describe his reaction. A bard’s flourish—or drivel.
Georg thought nothing of the sort, but recognised a visceral ache, dormant since before Agathe’s loss four years past. A stirring, low and fierce, pulsed through him: desire, raw and unbidden, for the woman he adored.
The Captain was partially saved by the fact that all of the men in the hall were watching the Fräulein with various degrees of attraction or desire, but Bobby was right: it was a dangerous situation. There was nothing official with Elsa, it was true, but everyone knew they were, as people put it, ‘considering it’, and that Elsa was the hostess of the event. Georg had to be careful not to anger her, to humiliate her in front of the guest, and not to provoke gossip that might damage his (hopefully) future relationship with Maria.
The lady in question had finally reached the landing, where Max was waiting for her.
“Show’s on!” Frankie grinned. “Twenty Schilling says Max winds Georg up before the main course.”
“Main course?” Bobby scoffed. “Starters, fifty Schilling.”
Max stretched out a gloved hand. Maria offered hers—tentative—and he bowed low, pressing a lover’s kiss to it. “You do me great honour, Fräulein. I’ll be the envy of every man tonight. Look at you!”
A blush crept up Maria’s cheeks. “Herr Detweiler… you’re too kind!”
“It’s Max… and no, you are the most stunning creature in this ballroom, my dear. You must have noticed all men stopping in their tracks to admire you. Don’t blush: it’s all part of the game. You stun us, we admire you. I know, that’s not what you were taught at the Abbey…”
“MAX! Are you embarrassing Fräulein Maria already?” Georg’s voice boomed from behind.
Frankie and Bobby were rubbing their hands. Elsa was now back on Georg’s arm, a poker face if there was ever one. Unfortunately for her, Georg had obviously barely registered that his dinner partner had just successfully re-attached herself to his arm, too caught up in Max’s third-rate romancing of Fräulein Maria.
Max continued, as if nothing had happened. “… as I was saying, I know the Abbey has a slightly different outtake on this, but outside… this is the game. Just a game. Trust me, I will not blabber to your Mother Abbess that you were here in full glamour, simply enjoying the night and seeing what another path might lead you to.”
Georg, again, interjected. “Max, I will not have you scare away my guest.”
Elsa squeezed Georg’s arm at that word.
Georg’s “Elsa, is something the matter?” crossed with Max’s “There is nothing scary in seeing things from another perspective with a friend on your side, Fräulein Maria.” The Whiteheads mentally checked whether they had enough banknotes for the bets of the evening.
Herr Brötzner as well as Baron and Baroness Ebberfeld approached. The Baron and the Baroness requested an introduction to Maria, and Max was gloating, to be able to introduce her as his dinner partner.
But Georg wasn’t here to lose. “Herr Brötzner, may I introduce to you Fräulein Maria Rainer? She is a graduate of State Teachers’ College of Vienna, a successful teacher and governess to my children sent to us from Nonnberg Abbey, where she is a postulant.” Hopefully not for long.
“Oh, I thought nuns could not leave the convent!”
Maria felt the need to explain. “Oh, but a postulant is still… we could say partially learning how to be a nun, partially reflecting about our calling: is the abbey to be our life or not, and why? Which is a rather practical and clear-headed view on it, if you think about it. Even people who marry usually go through a period of waiting and preparation…”
Max chimed in. “You did say one of the reasons you were sent here was that the Mother Abbess wanted you to take your time to think about it.”
Georg saw the danger looming. “Another reason she was sent here are her qualifications. She was a beloved and effective teacher in school. And I can confirm she has been effective with my children so far, and they do love her.”
A few other guests approached, all eager to get an introduction to the new guest, who, between her entrance, and her number with the children, was slowly becoming the real belle of the ball. Georg always took the duty of introducing her to the ‘commoners’ herself, partly amusing Max, partly irritating him. He also kept praising her qualifications as a teacher and a governess—despite the fact that she actually had only studied as a teacher.
“She is also a great lover of music. All genres, she says. We now have records ranging from Bach to jazz, from Strauss to Verdi strewn across the house, and the whole family enjoys them. She also sings and plays.”
Not that Max disagreed with Georg’s lavish praise of Fräulein Maria, but this was becoming embarrassing for everyone. Time for some damage control masked as Max Detweiler’s humour.
“Georg, will you stop monopolising my stunning blonde dinner partner? You have your own, take care of her. And leave at least one beautiful woman to the others, you rascal!”, he said elbowing him in a friendly manner.
The booming laugher of everyone told him it had worked—in part.
Elsa looked at him positively murderous, not for the first time that evening.
Luckily, dinner was announced in that moment.
Max pulled out the chair for Maria, then sat, watching her curiously.
“You know, Fräulein, I invited you to discuss business, but I am starting to think that this might be the best evening of my life. You have already pleasantly surprised me twice. It's interesting, Fräulein, that you haven't mentioned the elaborate table setting at all. Often, those unaccustomed to such formality find the array of cutlery rather overwhelming. Or so they say.” Max exclaimed while watching Georg and Elsa taking their place next to them. Georg visibly threatened him with his eyes at the words ‘pleasantly surprised’, Max’s statement uttered loudly enough for him to hear (and for Elsa, too, which was not too bad).
If he was able to control the damage to Elsa, this would really be the best night of his life!
Maria explained: “You will not believe it, but they did teach us about the cutlery. They said we might end up working for rich families and we might need it. And to think that, at the time, I thought it was something stupid!” She nudged Max, who kissed her hand in return, just to needle Georg a little bit more.
They looked around and studied the sitting arrangement. They were seated at the same table as Georg and Elsa's, a long and rather large rectangular table. Another similar table was at their back.
Georg and Elsa presided over the table from its head. Max and Maria sat on Georg's right. To Maria's right was local troublemaker Herr Zeller, unfortunately one of the main local personalities due to his public role in the Pan-German party, and the whispered-about role in the NSDAP. Directly in front of them sat another aristocratic couple, elegant but kind-looking, namely the Count and Countess von Eugenstadt. On their left were the Ebberfelds, and further down, Herr Markl, another local personality, but this time from the Christian-Social Party, a staunch monarchist. Bobby and Frankie were a little down the table.
Max pondered his initial seating next to Herr Zeller, wondering if Elsa was behind it. She was so worried about gathering people with power, and that had to be the explanation, because Georg… he could not imagine Georg even wanting Herr Zeller in his home, past camaraderie or not.
Max then eyed Maria with mock gravity. “If the cutlery doesn’t faze you, Fräulein, I daresay our dinner companions shan’t. Here, champagne. Ever sampled it before your sad decision to abstain from alcohol?”
“I am afraid I didn’t. But I am awfully curious!”
“So, you are not a teetotaller, then?” Max arched a brow, passing the flute.
Maria almost choked on her first sip of the precious French sparkling. “Oh, heavens, no, no,” stifling a giggle.
“So, I was right to suspect that you were refusing to drink because you actually had your own acquaintance with the poison before your religious calling. And probably not a fleeting acquaintance either…”
“I told you, I decided to test myself, to see if I could at least reject one thing from my secular life… which is, after all, what you said, just in a different manner.”
“First of all, Fräulein, I would like to remind you of what your Reverend Mother says: live this night to the fullest, a grand experiment for your soul’s deliberations. You have until next April, you said. Ample time to dissect every word here a dozen times over. Second: spill. The tea, not the drink. Tell Max everything about your acquaintance with whatever tickled your fancy during your wasted years as a student and hiker.”
Maria blinked, then leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Well… I’m Tyrolean, you see. My first Schnaps was likely at three—cough remedy, naturally. Beer followed at a fair—oh, eight or nine, I’d wager. I would have thought it too bitter earlier. Then Vienna… you know, secondary school, Teachers’ College. You can fill in the blanks. This champagne, though: it’s brilliant!”
“Welcome to the club! Cheers!” Max clinked her glass, voice ringing. Georg, two seats down, strained to catch it—neck taut, eyes flicking over Elsa’s chatter. The Whitehead brothers, further along, caught his glare and smirked.
Max seized the moment. “Georg, have you heard? Fräulein Maria has just joined the ranks of the champagne lovers. I will declare your party a complete success to all who will be listening. We haven’t even begun with the starters, and I have lost count of how many times she has positively impressed me!”
Georg coughed—a touch too loud—fork clattering faintly as Bobby’s chuckle carried down the table.
Initially, the conversation seemed harmless enough, with Elsa making polite small talk. She engaged her dinner partners with practiced ease, asking about their evening so far, how they were doing, and their opinions on the weather.
Max applied himself to the same skill, especially towards Maria, whom he wanted to feel at ease at the table, but with his characteristic playful twist on it.
“Fräulein Maria, it seems like we had a surprisingly lack of black eyes as of late. And this despite the many rainy days.” Max winked at her.
“Oh, Max, I think the black eyes are more likely to happen when the sun is shining and the children are out in the free.” She giggled.
Baroness Ebberfeld was curious and asked, “Do those two boys fight often? I cannot picture such dear boys getting a black eye. Then again, even our boys were wild at their age.”
Max could not resist. “Oh, no, Baroness. It is our Fräulein Maria who keeps me in line when my courting of her gets too passionate.”
The Baroness, a sweet old-fashioned woman, laughed and commented, “You are still living up to your reputation as a rake, Herr Detweiler!” while Maria was undecided whether to laugh (the joke was, indeed, funny) or to be indignant (for what it implied).
While Elsa dismissed the exchange as typical ‘Max,’ including his gentle ribbing of her own conversational style, the Captain found the initial banter questionable, and Max's final joke entirely inappropriate.
“Max, you are getting on my nerves.”
A little down the table, Bobby cashed his first 50 Schilling of the evening.
And just then, the waiters and waitresses started bringing the wines. Maria felt a little embarrassed at seeing her friends while dressed like a Baroness, but then she thought of Betty’s willing help, and relaxed again.
The wine choice was good, as she had surmised by the banter between the Captain and Max about the wine cellar, and she did know her way around wine enough to be able to choose for herself.
But then, she heard a rather peculiar exchange.
Herr Markl announced, gesturing to a bottle “Ah, I think I'll have a glass of this excellent Grüner Veltliner. A true taste of Austria.” A rather innocent comment, after all.
Herr Zeller scoffed instead. “Grüner Veltliner? So predictable, Markl. Why not try something with some... force? Something that doesn't cling to the past, but embraces the future of winemaking. See, here is an… experimental Riesling. This is what I am going to drink. You might want to try it too, Markl.”
She didn’t immediately grasp the meaning of that exchange, but she would soon discover the roots of it. In the meantime, she listened to Baroness von Schräder’s polite diversionary joke “I’m starting to think we should have had a sommelier referee for this dinner,” to which Max added, “It sounds like an incredible idea, Elsa. Next time, maybe!”
Starters arrived, the conversation took a rather calm and pleasant turn at the beginning, but Maria’s presence was bound to spark some curiosity.
Maria found herself addressed by the Countess. “So, Fräulein Maria, we have mostly heard either from the Captain or from other families in Salzburg about your career as a teacher and about your considering taking vows at Nonnberg. As you might imagine, we—all of us—are usually rather… cautious when we hear about ‘progressive’ education. And yet here you are, in the house of one of Austria’s finest heroes. And praised by other prominent families who had their child entrusted to you in school!”
“’Progressive’ just refers to the possibility of having a more lively or flexible approach to presenting educational content.” Maria stole a glance at the Captain, and once again played one of her favourite cards: “Since the Captain himself reassured me that it’s not a secret how he got his first medal: his approach to facing the enemy in the Mediterranean could also have been labelled as ‘lively or flexible’, don’t you think?”
Maria got her first success of the evening by eliciting a polite but sincere laugh from the Counts and the Barons, as well as from the Captain and, obviously, from Max. Elsa’s giggle was definitely polite, but probably not as sincere. Herr Zeller and Herr Markl didn’t seem to appreciate this brand of humour, and looked quite stiff and not at ease.
Herr Markl, in fact, decided to remark on the Captain’s flag in the hall. “Fräulein, as much as we all tend to picture our heroes as young and spirited, and to love them as such, you will have noticed that his old flag is still on display in the hall. Don’t let anyone fool you. The Captain is a fierce supporter of the restoration of the Habsburgs as our rulers, not a young rebel who studied in Vienna.”
Elsa, as hostess, did not appreciate the tones heating up, but Georg reacted before she could even think what to say. “Herr Markl, I will thank you not to talk in my stead. I am perfectly capable of presenting my political beliefs. Yes, I am a monarchist, a patriot, and I would support a Habsburg restoration, but you very well know that I do not necessarily see eye to eye with what the Party does. I do not believe in opening fire on protesters unless there is a concrete danger, for one.”
Max interjected, almost whispering: “Herr Markl is from the Christian-Social Party, local leader of the monarchist faction, Fräulein.”
Herr Markl really did not want the Captain to get away with it. “And yet, you do support us.”
“I am not aware of other monarchist groupings, Herr Markl. This does not mean I approve of everything you say or do.”
Elsa, putting her fork down, tried to remind the gentlemen that “I am sure we can talk about something less likely to start a duel.”
Sadly for her, Herr Zeller thought it high time to intervene, leaving her to contemplate whether the man could be considered a gentleman or not. “Captain, there would be another path to restoring what you feel you might have lost. I have invited you several times to consider the Pan-German option as a means to get us a Navy again. I cannot assure you someone would want to back a monarchist solution with the Habsburgs as rulers—you surely understand why— but Germany still has access to the sea. I would not call what it now has a ‘Navy’, but it is something to begin with.”
Elsa’s and Max’s eyebrows shot upwards, fearing one of Georg’s more passionate replied. Max tried to joke with Maria. “See? It’s not just beautiful women like you who get courted. Even our Georg has his courtiers.”
It was no use.
The Captain argued, luckily in a rather restrained manner, “Yes, thank you, Herr Zeller. As tempting as your offer may sound, I fear your party has a marked tendency to hate everyone whose mother tongue or blood isn’t German, which really does not fit into my Weltanschauung, as you very well should know. When I served my country in the Navy, we were all proud to serve under the same flag, no matter the language or the religion.”
“Captain, that is a lie you have been telling yourself,” suggested the Count.
“Or maybe just a romanticised view of your experience as a young officer?” added Herr Zeller. “You know very well what happened in the last years of the Monarchy…”
“Herr Zeller, I still refuse to join a party out of hate. I have always served out of love. Feel free to mock me, I will stand by my beliefs.”
Elsa tightened her grip on the fork. Should she tell the master of the house to change subject? That would be daring even for her.
Maria, incredibly impressed by the Captain’s gradual revelations and by his intensity and integrity, put down her fork and said, “I would be a liar if I said I am a monarchist, and you will all have to forgive me for this, but it’s true that the Empire was built as a multi-national structure. The Emperor’s list of title covered a good part of Europe, and to me as a school child…it sounded like a real multicultural entity, despite all the tensions that we now know were present at the time. It's almost ironic, really. Growing up, the Habsburgs seemed above that kind of narrow-mindedness. I certainly never heard Franz Joseph or Karl utter a prejudiced word. Except, of course, there was Marie Valerie, the baby of the family, who later... well, let's just say her later views were quite different. Thankfully, she remained largely on the sidelines. The real stench of antisemitism came from figures like Vienna’s mayor Karl Lueger...”
Herr Zeller argued: “Some say that being antisemitic is good, Fräulein. That it is needed to protect our people.”
“Herr Zeller, forgive me, but I do not intend to pursue this topic of conversation. I do not, and will not, support antisemitism.”
The Captain came to her rescue. “And I do not wish to hear about antisemitism either, Herr Zeller. Not in my house.”
Elsa wished she had never heard the word, too—not this evening, not ever. Why, oh, why did she choose a man with such intense political views?
Max tried to defuse the tension. “Zeller, best keep talking about wines, right?” He failed miserably, judging by the facial expressions of those involved in the discussion, but at least Elsa nodded as a way of thanking him.
Baron Ebberfeld was now curious. “Fräulein, with your religious faith, one would think you near the Christian-Social Party. Are you interested in politics, then, and are you placing yourself near the Republican wing of the party?”
Maria was rather uneasy, and started fiddling with her napkin. Not that the truth would be scandalous per se. The problem was how she had developed her political convictions, which was always in the back of her mind. “I will have to disappoint you. I do not support any specific party. I am also not a monarchist, although I don’t think the dualism monarchy/republic is the main social and political issue we have to face nowadays. Therefore, do not expect me to passionate champion either the one or the other option.”
The Baron continued. “You are also not antisemitic. But you do vote, now, so you will have to choose one.”
“Forgive me for my bluntness, Baron, but my vote is secret. Also, I prioritise issues and their solutions over labels.”
The Count was now very curious. “What would be one of the main issues, according to you, Fräulein?”
“Education. For everyone. We need people who learn, apply themselves, and who can think for themselves.”
“And, I suppose, with your… how did you call it? ‘Flexible approach’?”
“And also without class differences. What does the country stand to gain if people have access to poorer education just because they were born in the wrong family? The country needs every single brain, not just a mass of arms and a few brains selected from privileged backgrounds.” She stood proud and straight while saying this, but she missed the Captain’s equally proud look at her while looking the Count in the eyes.
Herr Markl was astonished. “Those are for certain radical ideas. And the Church never denied its support to those who wanted to learn without having the means.”
Surprisingly, the Captain supported Maria. He put down his fork, and said with a knowing grin: “What is wrong in wishing for education for all? That is one of the issues where I don’t understand why the Conservatives are so stubborn about. I suppose we could all do more charity work and allow more people access to education, but wouldn’t it be easier if we had a system that took care of it?”
It was Maria’s turn to be astonished, her hands now gripping her napkin tight. But, after all, he had often expressed his admiration for her career…
The Counts, the Barons, and Herr Markl agreed. “Captain, are you turning radical?” Everyone had stopped eating.
Maria returned the favour, and proclaimed, just before a quick glance at the Captain, “I think it’s likely that extremely conservative stances, such as denying people education just because of their background, will breed more radicals on the left spectrum of politics. I believe the Captain is just asking you to be more reasonable. Probably to avoid said radicalisation.”
Herr Markl attacked again. “So, if we agreed to your… let us be honest… Social Democratic stance on education, would you back a monarchist restauration in exchange?”
Maria answered, “Yes, as long as you don’t ask me to join in a romanticised glorifying of the Monarchy.”
The Captain raised a glass to her, and she tried to smile at him briefly, then nodded to acknowledge the gesture.
But it was Herr Zeller that surprised everyone. “You are an intelligent woman who knows how to prioritise issues. You would do well in our party. We do think that education is crucial, too, and that it is one of the women’s main callings. And your realist approach shown just now puts you ahead of many Party militants. I advise you to read our program, to read what our militants support, and not to let you be influenced by hearsay about us.”
“Thank you, Herr Zeller, I do like reading,” she delivered in a sarcastic but poised way that made Elsa von Schräder envious.
Herr Markl could not let Herr Zeller win. “Herr Zeller, I think you are currently blinded by the loveliness of the Fräulein, and by her cunning in wording her statement. She is as red as the dress she wears. She studied in Vienna, and she definitely did not get that kind of ideas from either us or your side.”
The Christian-Social representative got on Maria’s nerves, and she really struggled not to be too offensive in her reply, her hands clasped together under the table, her fingers twisting together in a nervous gesture. “Herr Markl, I get my ideas by reading, by hearing what people say, and by thinking autonomously.
If you really must know, I used to be a member of the Social Democratic Party indeed… as a young student, until during a Bach concert I suddenly felt the need to reacquaint myself with that faith the music was all about. I then re-joined the Church, to the point that I even decided to become a postulant at Nonnberg.
I spent years trying to flee labels, and this Austrian obsession for joining associations with their clear political label on it. I tried to get together people hiking for the love of nature and sport, without asking them to declare for the one or the other party. And I try to stay away from anyone who might want to use my opinions on an issue, or my interests, as a means of labelling me.
Don’t fear, Herr Markl, I might even vote Christian-Social if I felt that it was the best option. What I do believe is, though, that we might want to look a little farther than our few political parties, and see if there are any better ideas elsewhere.
Didn’t the aristocracy always pride itself in its international connections, education, and scope?” That one was probably far-fetching, but since she had lost control, she had to try. “Shouldn’t we maybe bring that back from the past, of all the things one might be nostalgic about?”
Max was fascinated by Maria’s courage; Georg was fascinated by yet another side of her. Her ideas, her willingness to stand up for them, her courage, too.
Elsa wanted to put a stop to the conversation, but rank overrode her.
The Count was fascinated in her own way. “Fräulein, you certainly are a rather… independent sort of person. It is true; the country needs lively minds desperately. It is also true that maybe we are all becoming rather indolent or apathetic, simply siding with either the Pan-German or the Christian-Social Party. You will have to agree, though, that we were all rather scared by… some events that happened between 1917 and 1918, and that, as we said in the beginning, we tend to be very suspicious now of anyone who sounds radical. What examples do you suggest we might look at?”
“England, for example. A constitutional monarchy, where people are granted rights.”
The Counts and the Barons, as well as the Captain, all agreed with a polite nod.
Elsa was frankly tired of hearing the woes of the world discussed, and of fearing that the situation might degenerate. Therefore, she tried to be the good hostess she was, deviating the conversation to a topic that would have everyone—including Lady Lovely Nun—participate and, most likely, not on the verge of arguing every single minute.
“Now, now, we don’t have to reform Austria tonight, don’t we agree? Fräulein Maria has another passion, music! She is an amazing teacher, singer, guitar player, and connoisseur of classical, religious, and jazz music!”
And, thanks to Elsa herself, Maria shone in a more relaxed way, with her inputs on music and with Max’s support as a professional impresario in the field of music and theatre.
And with the Captain’s adoring stares, but she did miss most of them, caught as she was in the conversation.
“Fräulein Maria, you have been an amazing revelation. You have fascinated us all—even the ones who criticised your views. As you can see, you can fit anywhere you might want to.”
All the neighbours nodded, some reluctantly, some wholeheartedly agreeing.
“You only have to ponder which path to go. And if you should decide that this is the sphere you want to belong in, I would be glad to be your ticket. I know it’s not the most romantic proposal, but… marry me! I would love to, to grant you enter into the society you deserve…”
Georg von Trapp, who had survived the belly of the Adriatic in an experimental coffin of steel, who had faced down torpedo fire and the slow creep of suffocation, nearly perished that very instant—felled, not by war, but by Max’s infernal mouth. Friendly fire, one might say. The flute in his hand met a tragic fate, its stem shattering under the grip of a jealous would-be lover.
Elsa’s entire being had crystallized into something cold, elegant, and deadly. A single flicker of an eyelash was the only sign she was still alive. The red wine, gripped with the precision of a marksman, was her only defence against committing social homicide.
“…I would ask very little of you, and you would be free to enjoy society as you see fit…” Max continued.
The silence stretched. All the dinner neighbours were too shocked to react. That he would propose, and that he would imply that…
“…but I also understand you have other options, better options than old Max. See that young man over there? A banker’s son, Spängler. Must be about twenty. I saw him clearly calculating whether he could afford to marry poor—to marry you—when you came down the stairs.”
Elsa found her voice. It was venomous. “I am sure we don’t need to explore Maria’s marital options in public.” Each word was a bullet. “People might want to ponder in private whether-and-whom-to-marry!” She downed an entire glass of red wine in one go.
Maria had not been this disoriented since her first and only foray into revolutionary drinking culture at fifteen: a gathering of Vienna’s finest teenage and young adult idealists, where she’d quickly learned that “for the cause” apparently included litres of Ottakringer beer. She felt unable to do anything and wishing for someone to bring her home and hide her from the world.
“Elsa, you are not being a good hostess. Balls like this ARE the place to discuss marital options.”
The sheer audacity of Max’s words nearly sent Georg into apoplectic shock. “Max, I forbid you to continue embarrassing my guest like this!”
In the table behind them, more Schilling notes had changed hands after Max’s marriage proposal.
Bobby pocketed a fresh stack of them, smirking at Frankie.
“Who could have thought of THAT?” Frankie muttered.
“I did,” Bobby said smugly. “And I told you Georg’d break something.”
After dinner, as they were heading back to the ballroom, Maria, doubts gnawing at her, saw the Captain making his way towards the ballroom again, alone, and seized the occasion.
“Oh, Captain, I hope I didn’t embarrass you when I admitted I had been a member of the Social democratic Party… and I hope you are not angry!”
“Embarrass me? Angry? Fräulein Maria, I will have you know that, while I knew you aren’t exactly the type that might have been plotting with Lenin and Stalin, I have long suspected your political placement was nowhere near a conservative party, Christian faith or not. And that does not leave many options here in Austria.” His tone was a mixture of affectionate teasing and admiration.
“What… but how…”
“Well, let’s see. Secondary school and Teachers’ College for Progressive education” he stressed ‘progressive’ “in the Red Vienna… then, if I remember correctly, something like challenging injustice and disobeying orders you saw unfit by shouting at a naval commander and an employer.” He kept his tone playful, but in the tilt of his head and the ease of his gaze, everyone—Maria included—could glimpse something else. A quiet admiration, threaded with something deeper.
Speech abandoned her, save for the sudden heat flooding her cheeks. Georg knew, with an unsettling certainty, that if he let himself lean just a little closer, if he let his hand brush hers, he’d be lost. Completely, utterly, irrevocably lost.
Maria's mind reeled. Had she really been so transparent? She wasn’t ashamed of her past, of course, but the idea that the Captain had taken notice, had traced the pattern of her beliefs with such quiet precision… why did that make her pulse quicken?
Georg continued, his tone more serious now, but not without the hint of affection he so dearly wished he could show her freely: “If I ever had a negative opinion of you, you would have never even come near to my children, or I would have sent you away. I don’t need you to be someone who agrees with every word I say.”
Maria didn’t know what to say, until she suddenly did. It was a startling thing, to realize how deeply she had come to care about his opinion. Not just as her employer, not even as the father of the children she adored. But as a man. As someone whose thoughts mattered to her in ways she couldn’t quite name. “And you, a monarchist and a military man who does not believe in authoritarianism, or hatred, or in opening fire on people who are protesting? I thought… men like you were only ideas in books.”
At that, Georg was slightly hurt at first—that she might have long thought him a harsh man who despised everyone outside of his class!—, before he could focus on the hidden meaning she had unconsciously conveyed.
Maria’s heart stumbled: had she offended him? Oh, heavens, she hadn’t meant it like that! Why was she always speaking before thinking?
“Being on a U-boat is nothing like being an officer in the trenches, sending his troops to the slaughter first, then attending balls when not in the first line. The closest I ever came to that kind of life was my last year as the base commander, and even then, I was ever close to my men, no matter their mother tongue or their class. These experiences shape you, teach you a lot. Besides, the aristocracy is not a monolith, as you might have started noticing. Many on my family’s side are open-minded, warm people who just happen to have been born to a title.”
“Oh, Captain, I am sorry if I sounded accusing, or judging… I meant that it is… pleasant to discover that… you are not one of… them.” To that, he smiled.
“Oh, and, Fräulein, your defence of the dream of a multi-cultural empire was very sweet!”
Maria returned the smile, cementing their understanding. She exhaled softly—relieved, grateful. But the warmth in her chest didn’t fade. No, it spread, because she was learning that this man, this complex, sharp-witted, quietly feeling man, was something else entirely. And, oh, that was a thought too dangerous to dwell on.
The Baroness chose that exact moment to collect her dinner partner, interrupting their moment.
“Oh, come now! You two aren’t still deep in debate, are you? We spent dinner unravelling the world’s woes, surely that’s enough? Fräulein Maria, we wouldn’t want to keep your new admirers waiting long for the honour of dancing with you!”
Georg exhaled, carefully measured. He had known this moment wouldn’t last—couldn’t last—but damn if he didn’t want it to. If given the choice, he would have spent the rest of the evening dancing with Maria alone, sending everyone else packing. Instead, he had to turn back to Elsa, to the delicate manoeuvring required of the next conversation, to the expectations he had let linger for far too long.
Maria startled slightly, as if waking from something. From him. Had they really been standing here all this time? Had she truly been so lost in their conversation that she forgot the ballroom, the music, the world beyond the man before her?
Her experience at the ball was equally confusing as her entire evening had been so far, but overall positive.
Max was obviously her first dancing partner, still swooning over her for everyone to see. “My enchanting dinner partner, and now my dance partner. Wouldn’t you want to live like this forever, Fräulein?”
“Oh, Max, I think I would get either physically and intellectually tired, or bored. I even let out that I was a Soc…”
“Fräulein, believe me, I had suspected it as much as Georg. Yes, yes, I overheard your private conversation. Anyway, as soon as you are in high society, who is to tell you that it has to be a ball every week or day? You will be the mistress of your life, and of a great house.”
“Don’t you think I might be looking for something more than just ‘high society’? I would like either to leave a mark on society, or to be appreciated.”
Max did think that Fräulein Maria would be doing exactly that if she married up, but he feared the sentence would not have the desired effect on her, so he tried another strategy. “Remember my proposal at dinner? See that young doctor over there? He's been eyeing you too, same as Spängler the younger. Clever man. Knows that intelligent women make excellent wives. Ah, and the Baron’s nephew, over there? Well, he just looks completely smitten—but, of course, noble marriages must be strategic. Pity. But, as you see, you can dare. Although I would kindly ask you not to tell your tale about your adventures as a young red revolutionary too often…”
“You haven’t even heard a tenth of it!” Maria laughed openly.
“It is probably better. Although I might enjoy the humour in it, I might just blab if too drunk, and there goes your secret”
Maria was then asked by a few of those admirers Max had pointed at, and then by the two Uncles.
Bobby went first. She did feel a little under scrutiny while twirling in his arms, but he hurried to explain, “We are just curious about the governess the children love so much. We haven’t really gotten to know you these days. Also, on the same note, I would like to thank you for loving my nephews and nieces so wholeheartedly. On behalf of the entire family; even Agathe would want me to thank you for it.”
Maria was moved, and lowered her gaze a little before replying. “It is… they do deserve to be loved, those children.”
“Even when they get you a black eye?”
“Even then.” She smiled.
Frankie was not much different. “The wonder governess can waltz, too,” he said as an introduction, before repeating more or less the same thanks for her love for the children Bobby had said.
So, she asked: “Did the children truly talk about me with the entire family?”
“Oh, every single time over the phone, mostly with our mother, their grandmother. It was so endearing, believe me!”.
Maria had twirled through all three uncles, then a gaggle of unmarried chaps and, she suspected, a few married ones too fond of physics’ optical branch, judging by their stares at her décolletage. Pleasantly worn out—not tired, no, that was for grim days—she nabbed another champagne, catching Max’s cheer across the room.
She didn’t see the Captain approaching from her right flank.
“Would you do me the honour of dancing with me next? His genuine smile returned, dimples deep, blue eyes alight with a spark she couldn’t name.
“An official dance? How could I refuse?” Her laugh lit her voice, easing Georg’s quiet ache.
He guided her to the ballroom’s heart, fingers tightening just so. They struck position, and his left hand brushed her hip. That warmth again—blushing flared, her face likely rivalling Elsa’s red dress (well, hers now), a subdued gasp barely audible by him through the ballroom noise. She forced her eyes to his—heat doubled, heart tripping.
She thought that the Captain must have lied when he said he didn’t particularly love balls. He was always smiling while dancing, from what she had seen so far. As for her own smiles: maybe it was the champagne? Max’s ‘live this night’ nagging? That incredible conversation with the Captain from before?
After a few turns, Georg—relishing her flush, smug over that tiny gasp at his touch a few instants ago—tilted his head. “Fräulein Maria, have we finally tamed your boundless vim… and your debates? You haven’t said a word since you granted me this dance.”
“Oh, no, no, Captain… “
“Frankie and Bobby didn’t embarrass you, I hope?”
“Not at all. They were very kind, in fact.”
“Some cad misbehaved in my ballroom?”
“No, Captain. I don’t think anyone would dare, under your roof!”
“Is that a compliment, or are we back to arguing?”
Her laugh—bright, unguarded—answered him.
Across the ballroom, Max and Elsa watched, a drink each in their hands. Elsa had sidled up the moment Georg asked Maria to dance—wordless, steely. Max did not dare probe: humiliated or resigned? He couldn’t tell.
“I lost to a postulant in a curtain dress,” she muttered, ice in her tone.
“Elsa, that’s your dress she’s wearing, and she’s a vision in it. Curtains or not, she’s a simple stunner. An intelligent one at that. What is in your drink?”
“Tread lightly, Max. You might have been my staunchest supporter in my matrimonial aspirations, but you enjoyed yourself too much tonight.”
“What? I tried romancing her off him—give me that!”
“Third-rate romancing, half-hearted attempts, no serious intentions behind. Just for your amusement. Did you think I missed you needling Georg?”
“Out with it: when did you know you had lost him?”
“When he donned his gloves. Not this waltz. The Ländler.”
“The Ländler? I didn’t see him dancing the Ländler!”
“I know you didn’t.”
“Elsa, out with it. What happened?”
“On the terrace, his brood gawping. I might’ve had a shot, if Georg hadn’t hired such clever maids…”
“Now, what’s Betty done to you?”
“Oh, not you, too! I need another drink.” Elsa plucked a glass from the waiter’s tray without so much as a glance, pure spite, swirling it with a languid flick. Brandy? Whisky? A mystery brew? Max arched a brow: survival urged silence.
“What is in my drink, you ask?” she mused, her tone smooth, a velvet blade.
Max froze. Metaphor? Menace? He’d not risk a guess.
“I just want to rectify something. You asked me when I lost him. I did not lose him. I lost the game. And I hate losing. Of all the people, I would never have thought I would need to explain this to you. You are one of the most notorious good players in society! Don’t tell me you are going all romantic, or I will have a reason to hate Lady Lovely Nun.”
Max held his glass a little tighter. She doesn’t hate Maria. She never was in love with Georg. But she hates losing? He didn’t like the math in that equation.
The ballroom slowly emptied, guests bidding their farewells with lingering warmth. Max noted with amusement that the night had stretched far past Salzburg’s usual standard for a ball, and he decided to enjoy the view of the villa turning back to its natural state (or close to), sipping one last drink, hidden by a column—a beloved strategy in a villa that seemed to grow more interesting every hour.
Maria was still being stopped by guests asking her questions, or complimenting her for her work with the Trapp children. Although young Spängler’s compliments in this sense sounded rather comical. What could he know of children’s pedagogy?
She still had a champagne glass in her hand, and yet looked and sounded completely sober. Not the weirdest thing to happen tonight.
He noticed Elsa making a rather tasteful exit in her usual manner. “Georg, since they are all heading home now, the orchestra is already gone… I think I am calling it a night. Good night, Georg! Good night, Baroness! Oh, and good night, Maria! Don’t worry too much about the dress. I am sure the maid will pick it up tomorrow from your room.”
Was it the calm before the storm? Was this a strategic retreat or the final word?
With the guests gone, the night relaxed its formality. Staff slowed their pace, lines blurred between hosts, help, and those simply lingering.
Max noticed Georg praising Betty and Anton, and paying the younger boys who had served and wanted to go home. Maria noticed him too, always with one of her dreamy looks he guessed she had no idea she got when she looked at his friend.
He saw then the Captain checking his surroundings, and it looked like the last of the guests was making his way across the door. Only he, Maria, the Captain, Helga, Anton, and Betty were left. Maria approached her friend.
Betty stretched herself in a manner unfit for society. Anton and the Captain loosened their cravats. Helga took off her shoes and sipped some water.
Anton tapped his cigarette against the silver case before offering one to the Captain. Georg waved it off, exhaling tiredly instead. “I'll stick to Aspirin, thank you.”
Anton then gave a cigarette to Betty, and the young couple stepped right outside the door and lit their cigarettes, while Helga was doing a quick check of the rooms, scanning for forgotten guests and taking notes of what was to be done.
“Once again, I must congratulate you for your job! I will be sorry when you drag Betty away after the wedding, Anton!”
“Well, who knows… right now, work in Salzburg is satisfying. Maybe we won’t leave for Tyrol immediately after all.”
“Anton is starting to like working in a factory, Captain. Country life doesn’t seem so attractive right now,” Betty explained, nudging her fiancé.
“You are a smart boy, Anton. You might make a career in a factory, you know.” The Captain wanted to encourage the young man.
Maria was feeling too tired, and had enjoyed enough of her secular evening, especially these last minutes with a relaxed and informal Captain being kind to the staff. Besides, her head was full of thoughts stemming from the many experiences of the evening, from the Ländler to this moment of informality. So, she took her leave. “I wanted to thank you all for tonight. You have all been very kind to me, especially you, Captain, and you, Betty. But I really think it’s time for me to retire.”
As Max had suspected, Georg would not let his last occasion escape. “Fräulein, just a moment. Take with you a jar of water, a glass, and an Aspirin. Believe me when I say that you will need it tomorrow!”
“She is not drunk, Captain!” Betty insisted, laughing.
“She has drunk enough wine to have a headache tomorrow, trust me.”
Maria intervened: “Oh, Captain, that’s very kind of you!... Where are you going?”
“To prepare two trays with the water and the Aspirin, of course. I am taking one too.”
Betty protested: “I’ll go,” but the Captain insisted, “You have been running around the villa all night. Enjoy your cigarette!”
In a few minutes, the Captain was back with a big tray carrying two smaller trays. On them, a jar, a glass, and an Aspirin each. “Fräulein, do you think you can manage it?”
“Of course!”
He then put down the big tray on the table near the door, and stretched his arm out once again, as if he wanted to ask for another dance. “Good night, Fräulein. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She gave him her hand, remembering he had greeted several female guests like that.
She expected the brief and polite press of lips he had granted those guests. What she got was something else. His breath ghosted over her skin, lips lingering, deliberate—more than a gentleman's courtesy, but not quite a lover’s touch. The whispered “Good night” that followed sent a slow, curling heat down her spine.
As she climbed the stairs, Georg’s gaze traced her—her shapely back, newly caught in his sight, stoked that ache to a roar. Starved, he was: over four years a monk, now mad with want. He muttered goodnight, Max’s last drink a blur as he fled upstairs.
In bed, Georg’s restraint snapped. His hand found release—then dreams flooded: her dress peeling away under his fingers, kisses trailing her back and her throat, her warmth yielding on that narrow governess bed: a tangle of limbs, gasps swallowed in the dark. He woke, ardour flaring again, and chased her through fantasy till dawn.
Maria slipped into her room, shedding dress and gloves—make-up smudged, nightgown flung on. She knelt by the bed. “Dear Lord… whatever may be happening… don’t let me be a fool.” Collapsing, she slept—innocent, adrift.
Notes:
The scene of Maria's entrance in the red dress draws inspiration from 'The Nanny' pilot, a series itself influenced by The Sound of Music.
Georg and Maria are officially in love, though Maria is still coming to terms with her feelings. See the ending (awareness vs. innocence).
Meta-fun challenge. Bobby and Frankie are accepting bets about:
- When are they going to kiss?
- When are they going to have some physical contact?
- When are they going to marry?
- How is Elsa going to react?
- Was Max serious with his marriage proposal?
- Are the children going to discover that Maria was at the ball?
- How are they going to react?
- How much does Herr Markl despise Maria? More or less than Herr Zeller?
Just leave a comment! 😉
Chapter 8: After the ball is before the campaign
Summary:
The morning after the ball brings a bit of chaos, followed by a flurry of introspection and strategic realignment. As relationships shift and intentions are revealed, the stage is set for the Captain's final and most important campaign: winning Maria's heart.
Indirect, tasteful mention of mature themes.
Notes:
Check if you have read the chapter of the ball before reading this; otherwise, it will spoil the experience a little bit.
This is one of the very few short chapters in this long story.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning after a grand and glorious party could only end up being either completely unmemorable—back to normal, after a night like that of the stars—or utterly memorable, full of joyful remembrance, or of chaos resulting from the consequences of excess.
Maria had thought, before bed, that it would be the former. Back to normal, her due reflections notwithstanding.
To shatter her convictions, Martha and Gretl jumped on her bed shortly after 9 in the morning (a miracle).
“Fräulein Maria! It’s time to wake up!”
“We slept for sooo long, Fräulein Maria!”
Maria could not really say: she had passed from being completely blacked out to having her two youngest charges jumping on her. Was it long? What time was it? The clock, next to her Bible and her Psaltery, marked a few minutes after nine.
The rest of the room slowly came into focus, her grogginess disappearing. She noticed the jar and the Aspirin, and she thanked the Captain in her head for his thoughtful actions, because she definitely had a headache. Not a big one, but one that was enough to wish that the children would speak much, much more subdued.
All of the girls were in her room, looking at her and around her. Liesl picked up the dress, which had slid to the floor from the chair she had diligently put it on, holding it between two fingers, like a piece of evidence, and looked at it as if it were indeed a possible murder weapon, pondering. “Fräulein Maria, what is this?”
Maria reached for the water and the Aspirin. “It’s a ball dress.”
Brigitta and Louisa, the inquisitive ones, asked: “And why is it in your room?” and “You have sewn yourself a dress like that?”
“Oh, no, it was the Baroness’s,” as if it were the most logical explanation. The younger girls were lost. Only Liesl dared: “Did the Baroness borrow you this dress? AND THE GLOVES, TOO, “ added, noticing the white strips on her dressing table. “You went to the ball after we went to bed?”
“Well, it looks like you lot are not the only ones capable to attend secret meetings after bedtime.”
The girls were embarrassed, their secret scheming apparently not so secret anymore. “What, you think I never heard you gathering and discussing?”
Hit acknowledged, Liesl turned back to the real topic. “Fräulein Maria, you must remove your make-up more carefully. You stained the pillowcase. Anyway… how was the party? Tell us!” Maria could not hear it, but Liesl’s brain was stirring and whirring.
Maria began, “Well, you know, dances, music, some food…” but she was soon interrupted by the sight of the boys’ heads popping out from behind the partially closed door.
Brigitta and Louisa were on it: “G O A W A Y! You cannot enter a lady’s room when she is not decent!”
“But we only wanted to…”
Martha and Gretl promptly passed two pillows to Brigitta and Louisa, who didn’t miss.
Maria knew it was time to get up and begin another day as a governess.
A few doors down, ten minutes shy of nine, Georg stirred, his body taut, that morning ache a stubborn guest after over four barren years. He yielded once more—a quiet, desperate rite—then rose, smoothing the sheets, folding last night’s chaos into order. Aspirin downed, face splashed, he dressed—the mirror showed a man refreshed by love, shadowed by fitful want, guilt a faint crease.
The house was slowly waking up again. Betty was already cheerfully on her feet (ah, youth!), if not already in her uniform. He gave directions to start preparing breakfast, and headed for his study, waiting for the aroma of coffee to invade his rooms.
He didn’t exactly need a hair of the dog, the days of his excesses long past, but he knew he had to face a few challenges during the day, so he poured himself a Schnaps: nothing fancy, something a mountain lad might drink, the choice not a coincidence, considering where his thoughts converged. He sat down at his desk, enjoying the quiet.
Max barged in and plopped onto the chair with a tragedian’s flop, face a mask of doom (or mock-doom? He wasn’t able to read him entirely).
“And a good morning to you, too, Max. What brings you here first thing in the morning?”
“Is it? A good morning? Truly?” Max’s voice dipped; dire, absurdly so.
“Max, I seem to recall you enjoying the party.” And your dinner partner. But then, who wouldn’t? Who hadn’t?
“So did you. Georg, did you at least have the decency to pretend to care about Elsa once in a while? A thoughtful gesture for everyone to see here, a gallant compliment there? Noticing her, occasionally?”
Georg tipped his Schnaps back. Silence burned his throat.
Max struck his brow dramatically, a picture of Greek despair, as if performing a tragedy.
“If she feels like you have slighted her, who knows how she’ll react. I take it you haven’t talked to her yet.”
“I would be surprised to see her up before noon.”
“Splendid. Another thing—Lord, I’d hoped our Fiume-era confessions were dead—Listen, I am not saying I would expect such behaviour of you, and certainly not of Maria, but… Georg, please tell me you didn’t trail her to her room after the party.”
Georg froze: Max’s insinuation stung, clashing with the night’s vivid sins spun in his head. A boy’s folly, not a man’s honour. A deep, unshakable instinct—honor, restraint, or perhaps sheer stubbornness—recoiled at the accusation. Yet for a single, unbearable second, the vividness of last night—her scent, the ghost of her warmth—flashed through him like a guilty fever. He shoved it down.
After a beat—Max paling, stroke nigh—he rasped, “Of course I didn’t follow her.”
Max let go of his breath in a loud, satisfied sigh. “Sorry, Georg, but I had to ask. You salivating at her for God knows how long, for all the party to see; her drinking all that champagne…”
“She wasn’t drunk! And neither was I!”
“I know, but… maybe slightly, pleasantly tipsy? You remember what they say in Istria, l’acqua fa male, il vino fa cantare, Dutch courage and all?” [water is bad for you; wine makes you sing]
“Do you really think I would do something like that?”
“I irrationally feared you might have lost control… must have been my worry about Elsa’s possible revenge that made me momentarily a pessimist.”
“What is this with Elsa’s revenge? I haven’t promised her anything. We have been friends for years. We were just… considering things. She was my dinner partner. What the future brings, we will see.”
“What does the future bring for you? Damage control, first. Too many people saw.”
“It would not be the first time society gossips had given a wedding for agreed to and completely missed their mark. It would also stand to reason that I might have wanted to see her with the children before taking a decision, that she might have wanted to meet my children before deciding.”
“Unless Elsa decides to get back at you. By the way, I love how you don’t even deny it. You are in love with the Fräulein, right? Not just in lust, I hope.”
“Elsa is neither evil nor stupid. Stirring gossip about the man she had in her aim, an old friend? That’s not her, and would damage her twice as much as myself, or Maria.”
Georg does know how to word his answers. “I hope you are right, pal.”
“We are not at the Academy in Fiume anymore, Max,” a hint of playfulness in Georg’s tone.
“Well, it looks to me like we are back to those days. Which is why I am now forced to tell you this. One, Do not scare Maria away. She is, after all, still technically engaged to God. I am also under the impression that she is even more innocent than your average innocent—God knows how she managed to keep boys at bay, I swear. Court her, slowly, patiently, expertly… well, not too expertly. Two, do not let lust dictate your actions. Georg, I swear, if I hear one rumour about you sneaking into her room, I am personally pushing you into the Salzach. Rings any bell? Myself, Bobby and Franky threatening to dunk you into the Quarnaro Gulf if Agathe didn’t come to the altar intact?” Georg grunted. “Three, do not let society have fun with you. I am glad the Festival is starting and I can stay here, but I will stay here as much as humanly possible even after the Festival and until you manage to bring that girl to the altar. In a figure-revealing white dress, of course.”
“I suppose I have to… thank you for your support? Your dreams of joining my and Elsa’s wealth forgotten like that? Max, you are getting soft!” Georg raised his glass in a mock toast to his friend.
“Georg, what is that vile stuff you just gulped down?” Another sigh, then Max took a bottle and poured himself a Schnaps. “I feel like I need one.”
“Suit yourself. But, now that we are being honest with each other… Max, was your marriage proposal serious?”
Max replied, his tone dripping with theatrical innocence, “Well, I guess we’ll never know now, will we?” Max's face took on an expression of exaggerated surprise. He widened his eyes slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Georg and Max were the first to sit down at breakfast table, a long and slow breakfast as planned by the Captain and the staff, and start drinking life-saving coffee—may Resi be praised!
The second arrival was Bobby, who, upon seeing the two friends at the table by themselves, slapped his thigh and started laughing. “I do not believe it! Catching you two alone?”
Max remembered that a few Italians experimented with liquor in the coffee to fight off the cold on ships and submarines, something they called… caffè corretto? Well, he wished for a caffè corretto, now.”
Bobby didn’t desist. “So. how did it go? Brilliant, don’t you think,” grin barely contained. “Tell Bobby all there is to know.”
“What is there to know? The party was a success, I was the last one upstairs.”
Max added: “Actually, I was the last one upstairs.” Georg glared at him, Max returned the favour.
Bobby insisted. “Georg, Georg, Georg…,” shaking his head playfully.
“Oh, not you too!”
At that moment, Frankie joined them. Bobby didn’t let the occasion slip. “Well, Frankie too.”
Frankie was astonished. “No prelude? No overture? Not even pathetic attempts at explaining?”
Georg didn’t appreciate his business being discussed in what was a public room, with the two ladies involved and his dear children who might barge in any moment. “I think we can all discuss this as gentlemen in my study, always remembering that I don’t need or want people meddling in my private life. Also, Max has already lectured me, and as much as I don’t like my life being treated as source of entertainment for others, I appreciated some of it and recognise he has some points. As for the rest, we have thrice uttered the word ‘gentlemen’. I advise you all to behave like one.”
Thus, when Maria arrived with the children in tow, the room was a superficially relaxed environment full of coffee, eggs, speck, and cake.
Their arrival was heralded by the usual loudness, a few children commenting on their expectations for the food, others asking about the plans for the day. Maria then stepped into the room, said her usual cheerful “Good morning!” accompanied by the hand gesture, and made to move to her seat on the other side of the room. Passing by, she crossed the Captain’s gaze, who was following her. She slowed down imperceptibly without even thinking, and smiled timidly, her gaze staying on the Captain for a few seconds.
The Captain returned a full smile, and accompanied her to her seat with it.
Liesl continued taking notes.
Breakfast became a little louder, the children’s curiosity about the ball unstoppable: “Fräulein Maria only said there was music, dances, and food, and conversation, and people had fun… and that’s all there is! We don’t believe it!” “How many dances did you dance, Uncle?” “Who do you think was more beautiful, the men or the women?” “Were there brawls?”—Kurt got a mild but firm reprimand for that one. The adults tried to answer as appropriately as possible, Georg calmly reminding the children that people also wanted to eat, and glaring at the uncles every time he feared they might say something way out of line.
But there was a novelty to Georg: a quiet feeling of familial normalcy. Maria, sitting at her place, sharing a meal with him and the children, occasionally smiling at him, always timidly and always turning away in a matter of seconds. The three uncles visiting, just being with the family too. Liesl smiling widely at him in between bites and a few questions here and there about fashion, champagne, and parents of her classmates.
Even Maria, who lacked Georg’s inner clarity, could sense something had shifted. The memory of her dances with the Captain were the fodder for her tentative smiles; his smiles in return calming her just enough to not have her worry about her employment status, or else.
The rest could wait: she had time until April to sort out her life, after all.
Sometimes, though, she felt like she could hardly breathe, when his eyes lingered on her, and she had to turn away at that, to avoid alarming the table. The feeling of sitting at a table with a family that had accepted her suddenly washed over her. She had vaguely felt the same before: during meals with her youth groups, or when she first entered Nonnberg, but this was… different. Where she had previously just felt not alone anymore, she was suddenly feeling good.
To the surprise of all the present, the Baroness emerged from her rooms shortly after ten. Even more surprisingly, she was warm and almost cheerful in her greeting. “Good morning everyone! Georg, children, Maria, our three gentlemen,” nodding at them all. She sat as usual between Maria and Liesl, and complimented Maria for “looking almost as if you had just slept all night. You will have to tell me your secret!”
Bobby had to stop himself from saying Probably that 15-year age gap, give or take.
Apparently not satisfied, she continued, almost chirping (chirping! Max didn’t know what would come next. Locusts? Frogs were no strangers to this home already…) “So, Maria, tell me: what did you enjoy more? Reciting Psalms at the Abbey or arguing politics with our table? I am not asking about the champagne because I often saw you with a flute in your hand…”
The Baroness even discussed the ball with Liesl, starting from a remark about her champagne verse during the farewell song.
Max thought that vile Schnaps must have worked wonders.
Then, suddenly, the Baroness announced: “So, everyone. I thought I will gladly stay until the Festival inauguration—cannot miss such an event! Then I will go back to Vienna, or maybe I will go visit friends in Lower Austria, or Hungary, or France. I am still pondering my options.”
And just like that—elegantly, bravely—, Elsa said in a few words what had to be said, and bowed out gracefully, as she was always capable of.
Max vowed to follow the family to Church on Sunday.
Liesl saw all the pieces fall into place.
Later, Elsa did knock on Georg’s study door, well after the gentlemen’s club had finished his meeting.
Georg, always the hero, started immediately. “Elsa, I apologise…”
But she didn’t want to hear the words, and interrupted him. “Apologies accepted. I don’t need to hear other words from you. That’s is all there is to say.”
“But…”
“Georg, we have been friends for about 16 years, maybe more. We are still friends, we will continue being friends. Which is why I do not want you to utter another single word. You would ruin it all.” And you cannot apologise for falling in love.
Georg listened to her intently, a strikingly contrast to how things had been as of late.
“And thank you for all. I mean it, Georg. You have been accompanying me so many times to events you probably despised, you have helped me making many harpies envious—always on the arm of a handsome man—and be one of the most discussed personalities in the salons of half Europe!”
Typical Elsa. They both laughed.
Yes, back to friends.
Notes:
My Elsa is not a petty villain. She will be a fascinating character, with an interesting arc.
For those who are reading as I post: see you on Saturday (I post in CET, and it's now one o'clock on Friday). Next chapter will be long... but you are going to love it!
Chapter 9: Yearning to see behind closed doors
Summary:
The Captain knows what he wants, and the magic of summer weaves its spell on Maria. Their feelings intensify, their intimacy blossoms, and the path forward becomes clear. It's a journey of growing passion and undeniable connection.
Notes:
Chapter title from a line of “Emotionally yours” by Bob Dylan
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
To an external observer, the villa after the ball—and after Baroness von Schräder’s graceful bowing out— might have seemed to go back to normal.
Maria’s program for the children’s summer continued; the Captain joined in as much as possible, and after Elsa’s departure that meant more joining in, even for hikes and trips. Max was rather busy with the Festival, and Bobby and Frankie simply took the opportunity to enjoy Festival society as well and to explore the surroundings.
Two apparently major changes were announced, too: that for the future, the Captain would try to resort to letters, telegrams, and phone calls rather than to business trips as much as possible; and that Gretl would go to school in September with the others, seeing as she was tired to be the one left behind and as she had learned how to read and write already. The last one was a decision that Maria and the Captain took together. Gretl was a loving and expansive girl; but she was also rather stubborn, they were discovering. And she expressed how tired she was of being the only one not going to school.
They both thought that the girl would soon grow to be as spirited as Kurt.
The real change, though, was all internal, and mostly, only the two people involved—the Captain and Maria— did know. Of course, a more careful observer would have noticed something, as Max had highlighted in his conversation with Georg.
The Captain had the advantage of being aware of what his feelings were, of recognising that Maria was affected by him, and of knowing where those feelings could (and, hopefully, would) lead.
He had fallen hard for her. She had definitely intrigued him from the beginning, and maybe their first interaction ever had been the first step to falling in love. He hadn’t expected a young and beautiful woman with a lively mind and an open honesty to enter his villa and his life, but now he felt like his life would be nothing without her.
He knew she wasn’t indifferent to him. He had seen it during the Ländler, during their waltz. If he might have thought some of her previous reactions to him were just a woman reacting to him (he knew the effect he had on women!), and her lack of flinching when he had touched her to treat her swelling eye might have been trust in his well-proofed integrity, those more recent interactions had left him no doubt.
Would she be scared to see him delicately court him, to depart from the path she had taken at the Abbey?
Maria was full of questions. Max’s outrageous teasing about her ‘having options’ had echoed the Mother Abbess’s words with surprising precision that she take time to ponder her choice.
And ponder she would, now.
She had observed how the Baroness had always been too distant from the children, apart from a few superficial interactions with Liesl, so she had imagined that her announcement at breakfast had been a polite way of saying that she found the task of becoming mother to seven children too difficult for her. And she had long noticed that there had been no novel-like manifestations of love between the Baroness and the Captain, but she would have to ask Liesl for confirmation (she was still not an expert in the matter).
She knew the Captain did affect her. She might have never known love, apart from the fond memories of her mother and father; but she wasn’t stupid. She had noticed immediately that he was a dashing, witty, and intelligent man. The uncovering of his personality had wrecked her certainties about her future, slowly, and Max’s theatrical performance at the ball had only helped her reflect on said future with more balance than fear.
She only feared two things: what she would say to the Mother Abbess, and how; and whether she was dreaming of being Cinderella without living in a fairy tale.
It would be so easy to say goodbye to the Abbey and hope that she would find her own happy ending. It would also be so easy to be disappointed, to mistake some mere admiration of her success with the children and of her ideas for more.
Postponing her talk with the Abbess was useless, so Maria dived in at her first meeting with the Mother Superior. She told her about participating in a ball in glamour—borrowed—, and about some of the questions tormenting her.
“I do think… I might be able to do something outside the Abbey. That I have gifts I ought to share with the world. Then again, the Abbey was my first family after losing my parents, and you did accept me, even if conditionally.”
The Abbess, who had listened to Maria’s growth during the last months, rebutted: “And what of the family you have been living with during these months? You said you love those children.”
“I do… which is why I stayed, even when my mission seemed accomplished. And I also know I have to think seriously about my calling. I have too many questions in my mind, and I cannot wait until April to answer them, even though Max… Herr Detweiler said I definitely could.”
The Abbess didn’t miss Maria’s blush, and did the maths. Since she had stopped disliking the Captain, Maria had changed her tune about him… and her mood had also drastically taken a turn for the better. And her retelling of the ball had seemed rather… aseptic. She never once mentioned the Captain, which was rather suspicious. Typical of someone who had something to hide.
The Mother Abbess folded her hands and gave Maria a long, contemplative look.
“Child,” she said gently, “do you not think that love—true, generous love—can also be a calling?”
Maria looked down at her hands, wringing them nervously in her lap. “I never thought of it that way. I only ever knew the kind of love that… demands nothing. That gives without asking in return.”
“And what makes you believe you are now facing something different?”
Maria hesitated. “Because it… it makes me want. It makes me feel things I’ve never felt. I’ve always tried to give myself to God, and to the children, without asking anything. But sometimes, I think of… other things… and it’s not selfless. It’s… terrifying.”
The Abbess leaned forward, her eyes twinkling not without affection. “And do you think God fears your joy?”
Maria blinked. “No… but I thought maybe I wasn’t meant for it. That perhaps this was a test.”
“Or perhaps,” the Abbess said, rising and placing a hand on Maria’s shoulder, “this was the answer to a question you hadn’t dared ask yet. You were sent to the von Trapp household to teach—but also to learn. And you have learned, haven’t you?”
Maria stood as well, now teary-eyed but smiling.
“I think… I think I have. And I think I know what I must do. But I need time, time to really understand what I have to do.”
The Abbess nodded solemnly. “Then go, with my blessing. And remember—God often speaks through our hearts. It takes courage to listen.”
Maria hugged her briefly but tightly, words caught in her throat. “Thank you.”
As she stepped out into the corridor, a sudden sense of lightness filled her. Her heart beat fast. She could face it.
She hoped.
One of the first great events of the last month of summer was the Captain bringing home four bikes for the older children, as well as two for, well, himself and Fräulein Maria, although he did present them as “for the adults who might need them.”
Max and the Whiteheads had chuckled in private. The man had been a naval strategist, after all, and he seemed to have a strategy laid down.
The idea with the bicycles was not only to enjoy a few trips, with the older ones carrying the younger ones (except for Kurt, who still struggled a lot and had to pedal standing all the time), but also to allow the older girls to go to and from school quicker.
They finally planned their trip to Hallein, with the Captain teasingly reminded Maria that “You did say you hadn’t managed it yet,” and Maria returning the favour later, when they got caught in the rain: “This time, I think the responsibility for the drenching should at least be equally shared.”
Other moments that surprised Maria were the offers to go to town all together to buy books and records.
The Captain had already willingly approved the purchase of other records after The Miracle, but now wanted to be involved. He was a smiling, bubbly man checking on the children… and on her.
“Fräulein Maria, buy whatever your heart desires. It’s only the children that must learn that there are boundaries.” He said it with the same tone he would want to tell her, one day, Take my heart and take everything else I own, for they are yours.
Maria didn’t miss his tone—not one shade of it—and her knees very nearly betrayed her. She looked only briefly at him, so dashing and smiling, “Careful, Captain, or you will have to buy shares of recording companies soon!”
“Knowing you, Fräulein Maria, it’s more likely we will have to establish our own one,” his voice slightly low.
Her giggle tried to mask how affected she was by his saying our.
Later, she panicked when she thought that she might have read too much into his words, and doubted she would ever be able to understand him, really. She feared she might botch things with the children because of her newly developed feelings for their father.
The usual colder and rainy days of late July and early August made their appearance and stayed for a while before the last hot phase of the month and of the summer. Musical pastimes took precedence over sports in the children’s schedule. They made good use of their records, as well as of their guitars, and of the Captain’s violin.
When the rain stopped for a while, it was essential to walk around the garden for a bit to let the children release their energy, even if only on the gravel paths.
One afternoon, they decided to go see what Hans was up to, the children cheering all the way to their destination. They found Hans sitting in front of his house, smoking the pipe… and the Captain, in his shirtsleeves despite the drop in temperature, chopping wood at a rather impressive speed, not missing a beat.
Maria found the scene rather peculiar. The Captain was chopping instead of Hans? And why was it mesmerizing to watch him hacking and chopping?
“Captain, did you lose a bet to Hans?”
The Captain turned to watch the visitors, and started fidgeting with the axe while watching her, a little lost. “A bet? Fräulein, sometimes you’ll have to explain what you mean. We cannot read your mind, even though I am sure it would be fascinating.”
“Doesn’t Hans usually chop wood?”
Hans intervened. “Fräulein Maria, I am not getting any younger. The Captain makes a better job than I could possibly do—relentless, quick. I might help occasionally, when he is not here, but we usually rely on his skills. You know, Naval Academy first, his stay in Zell am See later. What he learned and practiced there… my experience is nothing compared to his.”
The Captain simply shrugged. “Any objections, Fräulein?” he teased her.
“Oh, no, no, not at all.” So that was him earlier this year?
The Captain was suddenly reminded of their earlier episode as well, when she had greeted him as Hans, before their relationship had taken a turn for the best. He tilted the head slightly, eyes full of amusement, and said, “You know, Fräulein, I do live here.”
You most certainly do, she thought. His forearms flexed as he gripped the axe, shirt sleeves rolled high — and Maria’s thoughts promptly derailed. His biceps were evident through the shirt, and Maria was unexpectedly reminded of her dances with him.
“Father, when will you teach us?” asked Friedrich, saving Maria from having to answer something.
“We can start now, if you don’t have much to do. Kurt, would you like to try too? The ladies can bring us water.” And admire us, he thought, not missing Maria’s reaction to him and enjoying it immensely. “I don’t trust Fräulein Maria with an axe,” he proclaimed, the corners of his mouth twitching.
As Maria was repeating her conversation with the Mother Abbess in her head and comparing it with what just happened, the Captain showed Friedrich, Kurt, Louisa, and Brigitta the basics of chopping wood. She decided to play along and bring them water, together with the other girls, making a scene of it as if they were ladies from the Middle Age tending to tired knights.
The family’s grand hike to Zeppezauer Haus on the Untersberg was a great success, in the end.
Maria had decided to make good use of a warm and sunny day of the first half of August, before the days started turning shorter, to have the children finally “climb the Untersberg” on the only viable path for them, and the Captain, once again, had gladly joined them. And so, they had Hans drive them early to Glanegg, where both the Reitsteig and the Dopplersteig started, then took the former, the easier path to the top.
Friedrich mentioned something he had heard at school. “Some think the border marked by the Untersberg should not exist. There are older students trying to convince us to support the pan-German option. What do you think, Fräulein Maria, Father?”
The two exchanged two worried looks, but—heartened by their previous discussions—, they tried to guide Friedrich towards a better comprehension of the issue at heard.
The Captain started, “You know I am an Austrian patriot. You see my flag in the hall every day; you know my story in the Navy. I would never agree to having our country and its great history cancelled just because we all speak German. We might still cooperate as countries, if the main problem is the economic situation of the country, but that is all I would stand for.”
Maria offered a more layered explanation. “You see, Friedrich, the idea that all German-speaking people should unite is not new. You should remember your history a little bit. The 1848 revolution, the discussion about the role of the Habsburgs… You should also remember that Salzburg belonged to the Kingdom of Bavaria from 1806 to 1816, due to the subversion caused by the Napoleonic wars until the Restauration.
Now, you will have to decide for yourself whether all German-speaking people should be united—Captain, bear with me—; what you should know, however, is that the two main parties advocating for the unification of Germany and Austria on grounds of common language and economic power tend to have very nationalistic ideas, meaning they believe their own nation and people are superior to others. This can lead to them looking down on or even hating people who are different – other nationalities, different religions, even people with different political views.”
Friedrich listened intently. “I see.”
Maria reprised. “If you remember, I once asked you and Kurt to be careful when learning marching songs, because they might propagate hatred rather than patriotism. Well, some people in these parties—the Pan-German Party and the German National Socialist Workers’ Party—tend to be extreme also in their expressions. They have been participating in violent actions of many kinds. So, we—your father and I—distance ourselves from them. We are not talking about you and Kurt throwing books or fists at each other, before getting back to playing together and being adorable boys. We are talking about attacking other people with malicious intent.”
Friedrich simply nodded.
“I will keep it in mind, thank you.”
Luckily, the younger children were more interested in butterflies than borders, and even Friedrich seemed to be more attuned to the beautiful day than to current issues. Hence, the rest of the hike unfolded peacefully, punctuated only by cheerful laughter and the crunch of boots on gravel, dirt, or rock.
The children had not complained about getting up early either, and Maria had planned regular pauses to allow everyone to catch their breath, especially since the Captain and she had to carry the youngest girls occasionally, when they really seemed too tired to carry on until the next planned stop.
When Martha’s legs gave out halfway through a steep segment, she reached out—not for Maria, but for the Captain. He swept her up without a word, and she nestled against him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Maria walked either beside them or immediately behind them, steadying Martha’s foot when it slipped from his hip. They moved like clockwork.
Despite its numerous challenging steep parts, the children were thrilled, and gladly greeted all other hikers, as Maria had taught them. The hikers were amused at the sight of seven children trotting up the path like that… and the children were very amused when a cheerful hiker assumed Maria was the Captain’s wife! Liesl gave a mysterious smile, and even Friedrich looked oddly satisfied. Only Kurt whispered, “Told you they would say that.”
Maria and the Captain were more embarrassed than amused, knowing what was in their hearts. But then, they realised that they had been looking after the children together, affectionately; that they were distributing their snacks and water, that they were taking care of Martha and Gretl together. As the Captain had once said, governesses weren’t paid to bring children on hikes; and as the Baroness had said, governesses and nannies were hired to do their job leaving the parents free…
The children were also very happy about the beautiful and very warm day, as anyone would have been. They rested and played outside the lodge, and Maria taught them about the local nature. Friedrich challenged his father to climb a little higher up and find an Edelweiß, and Maria had to repeat her lessons about the rocky parts of the Untersberg being very dangerous: slippery, full of hidden caves.
One lesson everyone learned was also that they needed more food with them in cases like this. As the two adults found themselves handing out snacks at the same time, they discovered that there wasn’t enough left to tame the hunger of seven growing-up children and two active adults. Therefore, they had to order something at the lodge. The Captain gallantly offered to stand up and order; when he came back and handed everyone their extra portion, Maria’s fingers brushed against the Captain’s hand. Neither moved away.
Until, as usual, the heat gathering in the Alpine valleys soon gave birth to threatening and darkening cumulonimbi that Maria noticed too late.
As it seemed to be a tradition of hers, she tried to have the group descend as quickly as possible, hoping to get everyone out of the most dangerous zone before the inevitable thunderstorm struck.
They managed to get almost to the road before the promised storm erupted, leaving them all drenched, a repetition of the day of The Miracle.
The Captain, while they were trying to reach the entrance to Castle Glanegg to take shelter, mocked her, as his usual. “Fräulein Maria, should I start doubting your mountain expertise?” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “It seems almost a family tradition, to end up in a thunderstorm after a hike or a trip.”
“I could say the same about you, Captain. Mountain or sea, you should have noticed the quick rise in temperature and humidity gathering.”
I was too busy watching you, either with the children or just you being you. He briefly thought he could tell her just that. But was it too early, still? Would she accept his words for what they were, a declaration of love? And the children were there, listening to their teasing exchange.
But instead, he offered her his hand to help her over a stone. She took it, said nothing, but didn’t let go right away.
Brigitta, frowning in thought, asked, “Why do you mock each other like that?”
Liesl, sharp-eyed, didn’t speak, but she watched her father’s blush, and Maria’s failed attempt to answer.
The Captain decided to be the gallant one and answer it. “We are not mocking each other. We are joking, in a friendly manner, about some amusing events we remember. We know there is no intention of offending, and we know why it is funny to always end up like this. Do you agree, Fräulein?”
Maria forced herself to answer, “Of course, that’s it.”
Maria wrung out her shirt, rivulets streaming from the hem. The Captain’s jumper clung to him like a second skin, outlining the muscles honed by decades at sea.
Maria tried not to look. She failed.
He, in turn, watched how her wet trousers hugged her legs—then forced himself to turn away, only to catch Liesl smirking at both of them.
Louisa grumbled, shaking her braid. “We really should invest in waxed coats or ponchos or something. This is the umpteenth time we end up soaked.”
The Captain raised an eyebrow. “Should we vote on it, then? Family logistics meeting at the dinner table?”
The children laughed, and Maria caught herself smiling too warmly.
Since the warm, sunny days still lingered—and the first half of August was drawing to a close—it was the Captain himself who proposed the idea.
“Let’s go to Lake Wallersee and have a swim!”
The children erupted in cheers. It was, undeniably, a wonderful idea.
There was only one small problem: Maria needed a new swimming suit. And to say that out loud, especially in front of him, made her cheeks burn like the sun. She managed to confess it to the Captain—stammering and blushing—who, to his credit, took it in stride and quickly offered to keep the younger children busy while Liesl helped her find one.
The cars were loaded, and off they went to the lake, finding a perfect spot with a generous patch of trees that provided some shade from the heavy August sun.
The older children could swim, more or less. The younger ones could not. So, Maria and the Captain took turns keeping watch, offering little swimming lessons, or simply letting the children splash and squeal with delight. On the grass, they rolled about, shrieking with laughter, their limbs half-covered in damp towels and goosebumps, the water refreshing in the burning August sun.
When it was their turn to swim alone, Maria found herself easing into the water with surprising grace, rediscovering the pleasure of movement and buoyancy after so many years. And the Captain, too, seemed to shake off a few years, diving in with the lean athleticism of someone who had once known the sea.
They stole glances at each other—shy, curious, amused.
Maria’s swimsuit was simple, navy blue with modest cream trim, but close-fitting enough to reveal a figure much more athletic than demure, albeit very feminine. The Captain wore a sleeveless wool tank and trunks, like most fashionable men of the time, his shoulders still broad, posture impeccable. Neither of them said anything—but Liesl noticed.
It was she, in fact, who later offered to mind the children so that Maria could join the Captain for a turn in the boat he had rented from a farmer nearby. She called it a gesture of politeness. But in truth, she had seen the writing on the wall and thought her father might want an opportunity to appear gallant and rugged in front of the governess.
Maria appreciated the sight more than she was prepared to admit. The Captain, rowing with casual precision, muscles flexed against the tension of oars and sun, barked occasional warnings—“Kurt, not so far!” or “Gretl, keep your balance!”—and more than once had to lunge to catch a child mid-tumble.
She was assisting him with the children, too, when she didn’t have to face the lake. Saints above, he was distracting.
As for him, he wasn’t quite sure how he managed to concentrate on rowing, given that Maria’s swimsuit clung to her like a second skin, showing both her curves and her athletic figure, and her limbs moved with a kind of graceful purpose he found, frankly, distracting.
When they returned to shore, Maria lingered for a moment in the boat while the Captain, now hip-deep in water, reached up to take little Gretl from her.
Then Maria smirked and raised her voice for all to hear:
“I can see now why you suggested we go swimming, Captain! That way, if a thunderstorm comes, we’re already soaked and only the poor governess gets blamed for ruined clothes!”
The children burst out laughing.
The Captain turned to her with a dangerous glint in his eye. Smiling wickedly, he passed Gretl to Liesl, and—without a word—pushed down the side of the boat just enough to launch Fräulein Maria over the edge.
She hit the water with a splash and a scream.
“Oh, no no no, you’re going to pay for this!” she shrieked, sputtering water from her mouth as the children roared with laughter.
“Pull him under, Fräulein Maria!” Friedrich called gleefully.
Kurt added, “Yes, get him! Drown the Captain!”
Which she did—sort of. She dove under and grabbed his leg (surely not a terrible offense, even for a sort-of-postulant?), then shot away with strong, elegant strokes, laughing and teasing all the while.
“You’re not getting away that easily from Captain von Trapp, Fräulein,” he declared, chasing after her through the sparkling water.
“Go, Father, swim! Swim!” the children jeered, laughing louder than ever as they watched the chase.
Liesl watched too, her arms crossed but a fond smile on her lips.
When it became clear that Maria was simply the better swimmer, the boys teased their father all over again.
“You can’t catch her!”
“Fräulein Maria is faster than you!”
“I used to be faster,” he muttered, panting. “I’m not twenty-two anymore.”
Liesl, watching this little aquatic drama unfold, shook her head and muttered, “Oh, Father... you’re done for.”
With September, the children began school again, and suddenly Maria thought that she would have to find something to do in the mornings. She would definitely miss the constant busyness, the many options for her day. She imagined the Captain might have been of company some times, but he would also have his own business to manage.
Max had been surprisingly present during the evenings in August, when compatible with his Festival business, and had often gone on the Captain’s nerves, together with the Whitehead brothers. He had been less present during the days. And now he was leaving for three days, to go on a business trip in Munich. The Whiteheads had already left for their estates, once the summer charm of Salzburg had worn off and pressing business matters made their appearance once again.
Therefore, when on the second day of school and of Max’s absence she received a rather surprising invitation, she could not believe her ears.
“Fräulein, it is a beautiful day. Why don’t we ride the bikes to somewhere and enjoy the sun? We could even stop at Café Glockenspiel before heading back home.”
Maria’s face shot up in surprise. A pleasant surprise, of course. But was he really proposing to have a trip, just the two of them?
She felt like fainting. And yet, here he was, smiling bright, and already wearing one of his fancy hiking outfits.
He added, with his usual playfulness, “Just don’t tell Max,” he said, eyes twinkling. “He might accuse us of enthusiasm.” The joke was meant more for himself than for Maria, but he felt like mocking his friend in his absence.
She could only answer: “Well, towards Hallein or towards Oberndorf?”
“Oberndorf is probably too far away for September, unless you want to spend the entire day pedalling.”
“We can explore around Bergheim—until Anthering or Elixhausen—, and then linger there, by the church. With the sun, it should be rather beautiful.”
And just like that, they were soon pedalling along the Salzach, northbound, their souls light, the air already carrying that crispness of the first days of September, with the days growing shorter and the peaks already white with snow.
It was thrilling for both, to enjoy the fresh air while on their bikes, the sun on their face, and—truth be told—just the two of them.
They explored the roads going up and down the hills and around the meadows around Bergheim, often in a silence that spoke of companionship and happiness.
When they were tired of riding the bicycles, they stopped by the meadow under the church of the village, took out a large blanket, and laid on it, enjoying the sun on their faces and Resi’s packed lunch, still in companionable silence, with just a few remarks here and there about the landscape.
The town with the river Salzach was clearly to be seen in front of them at the foot of the Untersberg, together with Liefering, Siezenheim, Wals, Fürstenbrunn, and Glanegg.
The Captain spontaneously shared, “Sometimes I do look for some more land to buy, you know. This part around Bergheim is very interesting. Wals and Fürstenbrunn are suitable, too, but most owners—farmers and aristocrats alike—are well-off and very attached to their land. I personally know some of them, in fact.”
“So, not just engineering and investments, but also land, to diversify your income? Or is it to travel less and stay here more?”
“Fräulein Maria, you do read a lot. ‘Diversify your income’? Bobby and Frankie would hire you immediately.”
“I think Max has also played a role in this. But yes, I read when I can. You know, those children ask a lot of questions!”
Later, when they had put their lunch away, she laid on the blanket, looking up at the sky. He laid on his side, watching her, his distance from her just enough to be proper, but enough to show that he wanted to be nearer to her still. She looked up at the sky, lips slightly parted in thought, and for a dizzy second, he imagined what it would be like to have her always like this—sunlit, smiling, beside him. He enjoyed seeing her so careless and free, and he knew he would not resist for long without kissing her. He even asked himself what she would do if he gave in to temptation and pressed his lips lightly on hers in the afternoon sun.
And then Maria began whistling the main theme from the waltz Wiener Blut.
She hadn’t meant to. The melody had simply slipped from her lips as she lay watching the sky, carried by the warmth of the sun and the hush of the afternoon.
Only after a few notes did she realise what she was doing—and what she was whistling. That waltz. The first tune the Captain had ever played in front of her on the violin, that evening after the yodel show, when he had returned not just to music, but to himself. A passionate tune.
She almost stopped, startled by the memory, but the sun, the quiet, and his nearness made it impossible not to smile and let the melody linger.
“Fräulein Maria… whistling?”
“Captain von Trapp… don’t make me tease you about whistling!”
They both laughed.
“There is always something to discover with you around.” His voice was unguardedly affectionate. She was sure of that.
She kept whistling, but something inside her fluttered. Perhaps it wasn’t just a melody anymore.
Later, they stopped for cake at Café Glockenspiel, and when Maria managed to spread the chocolate from her Sacher on her chin, he absentmindedly helped her wipe a particularly obstinate piece of chocolate. He let his fingers hover for a breath longer than necessary. She didn’t flinch; she just smiled one of her more bashful smiles…
…and something in him quieted, like the turning of a key in the right lock.
That evening, the children did tarry a little in the sitting room, all working on one of Maria’s ideas to make the return to school seem less heavy, all the while learning a few useful things and building a new skillset: a series of dioramas depicting some typical buildings of farms around Salzburg, in order to learn about history, customs, and local production and trade.
One of the sitting rooms was thus transformed into a space of creative chaos, with cardboard houses slowly rising from the floor and colourful paper or fabric birds taking flight from the table. Friedrich and Kurt had volunteered some of their toy soldiers, although Liesl and Louisa had remarked that they looked nothing like farmers from the Flachgau or Tennengau (or any other district of the region). Therefore, Brigitta had suggested that they also cut and paint something to use as makeshift clothes for the toys, and Louisa had protested that they weren’t professional tailors and that it wasn’t possible. Then the younger girls had chimed in, saying that maybe they had something they could use from their dolls’ clothes, and the originally peaceful endeavour had transformed in a heated assembly about what to do and what not to do, with Maria trying to explore the limits of what they could do without being too pessimistic.
“You can always get better by practice, but sometimes there are limits to what we can do. In this case, as Louisa cleverly observed, we are not tailors, and we also don’t need to work full-time on it. As long as we can paint the house facades and try to depict all typical local productions, I think we are good to go,” attempted Maria to smooth things over.
The Captain added teasingly, “Also, I would like very much not to go bankrupt by buying materials and colours for you. Between Uncle Max regularly raiding my wine cellar, and you with your fantasy and creativity, it might just happen, one of these days!”
While the older children laughed, Martha asked, “What does ‘bankrupt’ mean, Father,” and Gretl nodded.
Friedrich filled in. “It means finishing all of our money.”
Maria and the Captain together praised Friedrich for correctly answering his sister.
Unfortunately, the effort to work on the dioramas, and the conversations and discussions that ensued, made them all lose track of time.
“Children, it’s very late, and it’s a school night! Now, please let’s all close the paint boxes, put the brushes and the scissors away in our storage box after wiping them clean, and let’s go to bed,” invited Maria.
The Captain and Maria did settle for a swift gesture of collective tidying up by the children, in order to have them in bed as soon as possible. After taking them to bed, they returned to the sitting room to better tidy up what they had left, as to make it easier for the maids the next day.
They started picking up things and rests of materials from under the tables and even the divans, working in tandem without even noticing it, all in an intimate, contented silence, with just a few “look, there,” and “I am picking up that” for good measure.
“The children seem to be interested in pretty much everything you suggest them, Fräulein. I wonder whether they will ever be able to decide what to do with their life. I almost regret not having the usual strict and traditional governess who forces children to pursue one specific path chosen for them,” the Captain teased.
“Well, we already know Kurt wants to captain one of your Danube ships, or barges. I think it’s a good start!”
“Friedrich and Kurt definitely have particularly developed the brawl aspect of a sailor’s life,” he replied with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Ah, Captain, I think boys tend to fight when they are growing up. It’s just part of their growing-up phase: they probably want so desperately to be a man, and think fighting each other is one of the ways to go. I am aware that some scientists are studying these issues. I am rather curious as to what they will find out.” She made a little pause. “But they will grow out of it, especially with proper guidance. I guess you have outgrown your brawls years yourself,” Maria teased back.
“I have successfully promoted to arguing and shocking people with my political ideas. Some people probably would have preferred fisticuffs!”
Maria stood up with one of the boxes and went to put it on a table, and so did the Captain.
Maria turned around and found herself somehow looking into his eyes, and—as usual—she felt her breathing stop. So, she tried to deflect the tension by joking, her face as straight as possible while looking right at his face.
“If we ever do a diorama of a port or anything related to sailing and shipping, there will definitely be a ban on depictions of brawls. I don’t want to hear any discussion about authenticity!” She pointed her finger at him to come across as very serious, her amused expression betraying her.
The Captain didn’t lose a beat. “Agreed, Fräulein. I suppose if we ever do a diorama about hiking in our mountains, we will also refrain from representing drenched hikers caught in a thunderstorm,” he said with mock seriousness, his grin similarly betraying him.
They both erupted into laughter in the most undignified way.
After they caught their breath, they found themselves looking into each other’s eyes—directly, intently, intensively.
Georg closed the gap between them, reached for her, pulled her face towards him with both his hands, and kissed her.
He kissed her with the force of everything he had held back for far too long. He kissed her like the starved man he was. There was nothing careful about it—just heat, longing, and the sheer need to finally taste her.
Maria reacted by instinctively throwing her arms around his neck, and at this sign of her total abandon he angled his head and kissed her deeper, his tongue sweeping against hers in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. She had never experienced such delight. She tightened her embrace, instinct taking over her— her head spinning. Soon she was meeting him with the same fierce intensity, the warmth she had once known now a consuming fire.
He threw his arms around her waist, then groaned against her mouth, and the sound sent a spark of something wild and uncharted through her. She wasn’t just being kissed—she was being wanted, claimed, undone. She responded without thinking, without fear, meeting him with equal hunger.
Her hands found their way into his hair, nails grazing against his scalp as she pressed herself against him. He exhaled sharply at the sensation, gripping her waist, anchoring her to him as he deepened the kiss again, tasting, exploring, as if he could never get enough.
Maria wasn’t sure how long they stood there, lost in each other. All he knew was that this what all he ever wanted; all she knew was that she never wanted him to stop.
Time unravelled, leaving only the rhythm of their breath and the heat between them. The world outside ceased to matter; nothing existed beyond the space they occupied.
At last, the need for air forced them apart, but even as they broke the kiss, their bodies remained entangled, breaths mingling, foreheads nearly touching.
After they had slightly caught their breath—his hands on her waist, hers on his arms, both caressing the other slightly, Georg said the only words he needed to say:
“I am madly in love with you. Marry me, Maria.”
Maria smiled—soft at first, then mischievous—as she weighed her words, before responding in the most Maria-way possible.
“I suppose this means I will have to wake up everyone at Nonnberg at this hour—though, truth be told, all I really want is for you to kiss me like that again. Probably all night.”
Georg looked at her questioning, although her response to her and her wish she had just expressed did keep him calm. “I am afraid this time I am not following you. Nonnberg?”
“Well, I am still a postulant, officially. I suppose before I do answer you, I will have to set matter straight with them.” She grinned at him.
Georg studied her for a while, and then understood. “You are serious. You want to go to Nonnberg now?”
“Oh, yes. I mean, if I were promised to another, you’d probably want me to call things off with him before accepting your proposal, wouldn’t you? I am rather sure I will be back by morning.”
Georg raised his eyebrows. “You are not thinking about walking to Nonnberg at night, in September, I hope.”
“Well, it’s not like I’ll be getting any sleep until this is settled, so I might as well make it official.”
“Maria, I will drive you to the convent, and will wait for you outside,” he commanded desperately.
“Oh, you don’t need to wait for me. I have no idea how long it would take. We will just meet here in the morning.”
“Is this really necessary?”
“Yes, Georg, I am sorry. As I said, all I really want to do is…”
He interrupted her with another short but desperate kiss.
Maria gulped and then said, “Well, that.”
Georg then said in a commanding throaty voice, “Go take your jacket, Maria. We’ll meet at my car.”
The drive to the Abbey was spent in silence, with just a few glances stolen here and there.
Once Georg had parked in front of the gate, he turned to her, his voice a hushed promise. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Then, without hesitation, he pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply—desperately—as if imprinting himself on her soul before letting her go.
She swallowed, her voice unsteady but certain. “Yes... I’ll see you in the morning.”
Sister Bertha had hurried to the gate upon hearing the bell, worrying about some calamity or worse, only to find the Abbey’s worst postulant standing there, looking a little nervous and… something like guilty, but definitely not shook or harmed.
And yet, Maria had insisted that she had to talk to the Mother Superior urgently, that it was a rather important matter because something had happened and only the Mother Superior’s intervention could set matters straight. She hadn’t wanted to reveal what this “something” was, and by the look of guilt and the blush she wore, not to mention the hour at which she was calling, she had surmised that this was not just one of Maria’s usual shenanigans.
She even feared what this could be, considering that she had been out in the secular world for months and that she was a young and beautiful woman.
So, she had indeed woken up the Mother Abbess, shared her worries, and then ushered Maria into the office, leaving the young woman to reflect about her entire experience here.
And Maria did reflect.
From the day she had announced that she wanted to thank God for the beauty of nature, and that she wanted to do it by joining the strictest convent in the area, to the days of her constant struggling with the Abbey’s rules and of her successes as a teacher, till this day, the day she was taking her leave of it to marry a man: it had all taken place here, in this office, and it had been such a rich experience, where she had really learnt who she was and what she wanted, after all those years searching.
A while later, the Reverend Mother did appear, and after her greeting, asked Maria to sit and to say a Pater Noster, an Ave Maria, and a Gloria before starting their conversation.
“Now, Maria, Sister Bertha told me that you needed to discuss something urgently with me because something happened, and that you look rather… not at ease, let’s say.”
Maria inhaled loudly, then sighed, keeping her gaze low. “ It is true, Reverend Mother. The problem is… I definitely do not regret what happened, but I suppose I shouldn’t have done it while I was still officially a postulant here.”
The Abbess braced for the worst possible interpretation of those words, the same interpretation Sister Bertha had suggested between the lines. “What is it that you do not regret it, my child? Your secret is safe with me. I am only here to offer spiritual direction, not to judge.”
Another deep breath, another sigh, gaze still on the floor. “Georg… the Captain and I kissed, and he told me he loves me and he asked me to marry him.”
Oh, what a sweet child! “Is that all?”
“Well, I really wanted to accept his proposal and then keep kissing him—forgive me, Mother, but it’s the truth—, but I remembered I hadn’t taken any decision about the Abbey, although I confess that… during the last month I had been thinking about my calling more and more. And, well, I guess Sister Bertha was right: taking vows was not my calling, after all.”
The Mother Superior stood up and started going around the room. “My dear child, I had surmised from the way your tales from the villa had changed progressively that you had changed your mind about the Captain radically. This is no surprise to me, at this point. I was just waiting for you to understand, to find your own answers to the questions you had started asking yourself after the ball. And it seems to me that you have found the answer.”
Maria dared to raise her gaze and nodded, smiling timidly. “I just thought I should officially announce that I am now choosing a man over the Lord, Reverend Mother.”
The Mother Abbess reprised, “The Lord did send you to that villa to begin with. You have done nothing wrong in recognising the feelings you have for him, same as you did with his children first. It will be the Lord to bless your union. You are not giving up God, Maria: in fact, you are taking up a rather challenging way to serve him. You are choosing to love and dedicate your life to a man and his children, to love and honour him all the days of your life, and to continue honouring God too.
That vow is not to be taken lightly: now you are a young woman in love, who is blushing for her fiancé’s kiss; everything is beautiful, and perfect, and easy. You will have months, years of happiness. But sooner or later direr days, difficult days will come. You will have to face all the challenges that life will throw at you, and you will have to do it together, maybe when your love will not be as fresh and new; and you might even find yourself thinking that our way, the Abbey, was the easier way. The world outside these walls is far more uncertain than our cloistered life.
There will even be times when you will have to be strong for him, even when he cannot be strong for you.
These words you will hear from Father Peter too, supposing you will want to prepare for your marriage with him, continuing your spiritual direction.”
Maria seemed to ponder it for a while, and the Mother Abbess thought she was seriously considering how scary it all sounded. And Maria did, briefly, think about it; but the love she felt for Georg and the children made her feel so strong and brave that she would willingly accept all the challenges they would face. Also, she could not stand the idea of giving them up, and she would face a thousand dire days if she could only have a few days of happiness with them. Therefore, when she did reply, she focused on another part of the conversation, surprising the Reverend Mother.
“So, I am not as bad a sinner as I thought I was?”
“I am sure the Lord will forgive you a kiss with the man you intend to marry, Maria. And I am sure he will delight in seeing you choose that path, despite all the difficulties it entails, with the joy you have already brought to that house and which I see you on your face now. He did ask us to do his will with joy, after all.” After a pause, in which she tried to decide how to express what she wanted to say, she added: “Maria, I advise you to marry as soon as possible, to give what is already your family the blessing of God and the Church. You are welcome to marry here in our church, if you wish. I am sure Father Peter will be happy to assist both you and your future husband.”
Maria simply nodded, missing the real meaning, the worry that burdened the Abbess, who had read between the lines of Maria’s admission about kissing.
“Now, I will show you to a cell to sleep until the morning. You are welcome to join…”
But Maria had other plans. “Oh, no, no, thank you! Thank you, Reverend Mother, for everything!” She stood up and hugged the Abbess as if she were one of the children, surprising her, then continued. “If I am now officially not a postulant anymore, I will head back home! I want to be there tomorrow when Georg and the children wake up!”
Typical Maria! The Mother Abbess, who had known Maria long enough to expect the unexpected, merely sighed and smiled.
Maria turned the keys Georg had left her in the lock, and opened the door as quietly as possible.
She was met with a rather peculiar—but somehow endearing—scene.
Georg was poking at the wood burning in the fireplace in the hall, a divan hastily moved to be nearer to the fire. He immediately straightened and turned around as he heard Maria entering, put down the poker, and looked at her, standing, waiting.
She advanced steadily until she reached him, and positioned herself in front of him, still smiling, her heart beating madly and not for the walk. Even in the light of the fire, she felt like drowning in his blue eyes. But she could not ignore the scene she was presented with.
“You waited here in the hall for me instead of going to bed.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Well, it’s not like I would have been getting any sleep until this was settled,” he teased her by throwing her own words back at her, with an amused quirk of his lips to highlight his playfulness.
Maria gave him a lopsided smile. “But you could have waited in your room: warmer, more comfortable. You knew I would come home.” Her voice almost broke while saying this. “That divan doesn’t look cozy to me. And I don’t even see a book. Let’s be honest: it’s a rather stupid thing to do. And sweet.”
He took her hands in his, cupping them within his own. “Speaking of stupid things: did you just walk home from Nonnberg after midnight in September instead of resting for a while and coming home with the first bus?” He rubbed her hands to warm them up.
Maria just nodded, enjoying their teasing and his tender gesture for a while, until she knew it was her moment.
She looked at him, her heart hammering so wildly she was sure he could feel it through her fingertips, pressed against his chest.
“I am madly in love with you, and… yes, I’ll marry you, Georg!”
His broad grin broke across his face like sunlight spilling over the mountains, and it would be one of the images she carried with her forever.
Georg then slowly let her hands go and threw his arms around her. She slid her hands up his arms, fingers brushing over taut muscle, until they curled around the back of his neck.
They kissed, and she melted into him—not as desperately as before, but with the same passion, the same want and need, the same dangerous lack of restraint. It was a slow, intimate dance, hands roaming, bodies pressing, breaths mingling. He interspersed his most passionate kisses with softer, tender ones along her jaw, her chin, her nose, then returned to her lips and began his sensual dance anew.
When Georg felt it was not enough anymore, he moved his lips to her neck, eliciting a sigh. When he reached the hollow between her neck and shoulder, Maria shivered, her fingers tightening in his jacket. She swayed, a breathless sound escaping her, and before she could steady herself, her hands instinctively grasped his sleeve.
Georg froze. He had been about to catch her, but the moment her body wavered, the warmth of her so close—
If she asked him to sit… if she whispered his name in that breathless way…
He clenched his jaw. Control. He needed control.
But Maria was not making it easy for him.
She took the chance to return some of the delicious kisses she had received, her lips trailing along the strong line of his jaw, her warm breath sending a shiver down his spine. One of her hands stroked his chest, exploring, discovering, delighting in the firm, masculine feel beneath her palm: a tantalizing novelty for her.
Her instinctive passion was intoxicating. And oh, how he wanted to succumb to that intoxication.
With a low groan, he crushed her against him, letting them feel each other’s heat, the way their bodies fit together so perfectly. He captured her lips again, deep and slow, tasting her, taking his time—
Until a moan escaped them both.
That was his breaking point.
With sheer force of will, Georg pulled back, his hands still on her arms, steadying her. He was panting, his pulse thundering in his ears, but he forced himself to smile.
“Maria! Maria, my love! I think… I think it’s time we both went to rest.” He exhaled, trying to regain control. “We still have a few hours of sleep before the children wake us up. And… we have our whole life in front of us.”
Maria, breathless herself, nodded, her head spinning, her lips still tingling from his kisses. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if to steady her heartbeat.
“You know,” she murmured, “the Reverend Mother advised me to marry as soon as possible. She implied that we are already a family, but still need God’s blessing.” She hesitated, then gave him a shy, knowing smile. “But I suppose I am a little more selfish. I want to marry you as soon as possible because… because I don’t want to sleep in a separate room anymore. Not now. Not after this.”
This woman wants to fell me! Georg groaned inwardly, rubbing a hand over his face.
He chuckled, shaking his head, but his voice was warm, full of love. “I understand, darling. Believe me, I do. And I agree: we should marry as soon as possible.” He kissed her forehead, lingering for a moment, breathing her in. “Now… let’s go to our rooms before we test my self-control any further.”
Maria sighed, reluctant but smiling.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“And I love you,” he answered, squeezing her hands one last time before stepping away.
As they finally parted for the night, Maria had never felt more impatient for the morning to come.
Notes:
The Untersberg is basically marble (slippery) and full of caves. A few years ago, a skier who had disappeared in the Twenties (therefore in the years we are reading about right now) was finally found in one of those caves.
Our dear couple is engaged! I told you it was no slow burn, just a long story. What do you think is going to happen now?
Chapter 10: A change of seasons
Summary:
Georg and Maria’s first day as an engaged couple means that they have to tell the world, or at least the children, the staff, and a few people in town as well.
But it also means that they have to start defining what their engagement and their marriage will look like. To share more than what they have shared so far.
Contains excited children, pre-adolescents, and adolescents being themselves!
If you want to keep the story safely with a rating between G and M, stop reading where the text is marked by marked with **EE** and skip to the end notes. There begins a tasteful M/E part. Don’t stop before that, or you will not understand one of the topics of the next chapters. Also: I have seen fics with similar scenes marked M or even T. I am a little more old-fashioned, and I would rate it M/E. Let me know what you think.
Notes:
Common Austrian beer sizes:
Halbe (Hoibe in dialect) = 0.5 l (Austrian and Bavarian)
Seidel/Seidl/Seiterl etc. = 0.3 l (Austrian and Bavarian)
Pfiff = 0.2 l
Chapter title: summer is transitioning into autumn; and the Trapps’ life is changing too. Of course, I got inspiration from Dream Theater’s album and song.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It seemed to be a tradition of hers to wake up abruptly from her sleep after a pivotal night in her life. From blackness to the brightness of her room, and the voices of her charges.
Her children.
They would soon be her children.
Not just the children of the man who had taken her breath away, day after day, and who had yesterday declared his love, asked for her hand, and let her discover the fire of a kiss.
(Well, not in this exact order.)
She stood up, put on her robe and opened the door to go check on the children, a spring in her steps and a bright smile despite the hour of sleep or so.
“Good morning, children,” she announced in the nursery, and she picked up Gretl, spun her around, and hugged her tightly. Martha soon asked to get the same treatment, cheerfully shouting, “Yay, Fräulein Maria’s hugs!”
Soon the other children barged in to see what it was all about, and to claim their own hug, Liesl laughing at the ruckus, Kurt loudly chanting, “Fräulein Maria’s hugs are the best!”
“And what is going on here?” Georg’s voice tore through the commotion. “Who says Fräulein Maria’s hugs are the best?” He smiled openly and widely at the scene.
His eyes crossed Maria’s, who was similarly smiling.
The children then went to hug their father, too, before he said “Come on, children, prepare yourself for breakfast and school. We do not want to be late.” And with that, he exited the room, soon followed by Maria.
As soon as the nursery’s door was shut, Georg grabbed Maria, took her in his arms, and kissed her passionately, her arms clinging behind his neck, his around her waist.
“I have to agree, your hugs are the best,” he said with a grin.
Maria, blushing, only replied, “Good morning!”
“Good morning!”
“I hope you were planning to tell them today, because I am not sure I can keep it a secret.”
“I was definitely planning on telling them today. After breakfast, I am taking you to town!
“To do what?”
“To thank the Reverend Mother, to take a walk with you, and to buy you an engagement ring, of course. One could say… to show you off already!”
Crazy, sweet man!
At breakfast table, with the children all ready to go to school in town, Georg knew he didn’t have the luxury of a preamble. He also suspected that none was needed. So, he went straight to the point, after clearing his throat and putting the palm of his hands on the table. Maria was gazing at him with tenderness and a little bit of anxiety.
“Children, I have an important question for you, and I need you to answer me sincerely. Would you like Fräulein Maria to stay forever?”
Chaos erupted in the room, with the children individually screaming “Oh, Father, yes, YES,” without really grasping the implication of their father’s revelation.
All the children except for Liesl, on whose face the several stages of her gradual realisation were visible, only to peak in her excited sixteen-year-old girl scream, “OH, MEIN GOTT!!! I KNEW THAT, I KNEW THAT! CONGRATULATIONS!”
Her siblings were suddenly quiet and looked at her, rather astonished, whereas Georg and Maria were trying to understand if their engagement had been announced by their sixteen-year-old daughter (or soon-to-be daughter).
Friedrich really had not gotten much out of the novels he kept stealing from Liesl, because he dared to ask, “You knew what, Liesl?”
“THEY ARE GETTING MARRIED, of course, you Trottel!”
The children briefly looked at the adults, checking if a denial was coming, but when both people involved just smiled—Maria a little embarrassed, Georg as proud as someone who had just accomplished the best prank in the world—, they did the only possible thing.
They threw themselves in Maria’s arms, hugged her, and kissed her, almost knocking her over, and saying “Fräulein Maria, you are never going to leave”, “You are going to be our new mother!”. Their sincere joy moved Maria part to laughter, part to tears, and she returned their hugs and kisses, muttering “My children, my dear children. I love you so much!”
Liesl let the mayhem subside a little and kissed her father first, pulling his cheek to her and smiling silently at him, a thing that moved Georg to the core. She then moved back over to Maria for her own hug and kiss. “I knew I wasn’t just seeing things. And I am sorry I did announce it for you. I just couldn’t resist.”
“Liesl, we really don’t care, as long as we are all happy,” replied Maria, still overwhelmed by the moment.
Georg had reached the group and, clearing his throat again, added, “I just wanted to confirm that Maria accepted my marriage proposal, and that we wanted to be sure you would agree, but it seems to me like we don’t need to worry.” Everybody laughed at that. “Now, I think we might just have something special this evening to celebrate all together, but you all need to be well-fed and ready for school, so please go back to your seats. Hans and I will drive you to school if we are already running late, but please don’t tarry.” He then stretched his hand towards Maria, who gave him her hand in turn, and he produced himself in an elegant hand kiss as to seal the deal.
The children obliged, but weren’t satisfied.
Gretl sweetly observed, “Can we call you Mother, Fräulein Maria?”
Maria let out a single tear at that. “Of course, darling, after the wedding,” and all the children nodded, although Brigitta wasn’t completely satisfied. “What does it matter? Can’t we just start now?”
Friedrich filled in for her. “They have to make it official with the wedding, Gitti.”
Louisa obviously remarked, “Oh, now they will call each other by name!”
Kurt smirked and nudged Friedrich, his ally in stealing novels from Liesl (officially to criticise them and mock her): “Oh, they also kiss,” causing Liesl, Maria, and Georg a good deal of embarrassment, once again visible on their facial features.
Martha innocently asked. “Father, why didn’t you kiss Fräulein Maria as we did?”
Friedrich once again tried to sound more mature than he was. “He did kiss her hand.”
Never, ever tempt Kurt. “She doesn’t mean a hand kiss…”
Maria wanted to disappear under the table, Liesl wanted to lock up her siblings until the wedding, and Georg really, really wanted the children to eat their breakfast and go to school instead of potentially starting conversations that would have demanded some time to be carried on in a proper way.
So, he decided to act in an uncharacteristically bold manner.
He wiped his mouth, put down the napkin, stood up in a controlled way, then marched up to Maria, nudged her to stand, grabbed her, dipped her dramatically—delighting in her enchanting blush—and kissed her right there, a passionate pressing of his lips on hers that lasted just long enough to convey the message.
Maria just heard the children cheering over the internal sound of her total embarrassment, her joy at seeing Georg so playful, and her lack of breath, then silence was restored, to his complete satisfaction.
Georg has successfully grasped the methodology of progressive education, she thought, and marked the joke for later, to share with him.
After Hans and Georg ferried the children to school, Maria’s first day as an engaged woman began with a peck from Georg—sweet enough to flush her cheeks—and his plan:
“I think we should officially tell the staff, then we will change and go to town. We will have lunch there, and we might even pick up Gretl and Martha from school before coming home. Wear the dress you like the most, because we will also have our pictures taken.”
“Pictures?”
“I do need a picture of you for my desk, darling, and we need a picture on the occasion of our engagement.”
With this reply, Maria noticed for the first time how Georg could convey a thousand things in a simple, tactful, well-thought sentence. She then reflected on how her engagement—and soon, marriage—would shift the dynamics in the house. She was now going to meet the staff, her friends so far, as the future lady of the house. Could she still hug her friends to have them share in their joy? Georg was a rather liberal master, and she had witnessed it first-hand after the ball, among other things. However,… she was aware that she would soon be their employer, together with her husband. How would it work?
She briefly thought that, even with the children, things would slightly change: if in most cases she would continue as she had done so far, her love for the children an established fact since months already, on the other hand, she would have to be more wife than mother in some cases, and that also meant absolutely no secrets with Georg. How would Georg react to Liesl kissing a young postman?
As she followed Georg to the study, Maria felt the weight of her new role settle—less friend, more mistress of the house, a line she’d never crossed before.
Georg’s announcement was rather informal, and true to that nature of his that she had slowly discovered. “Thank you all for coming. I just thought it would only be right to inform you—if the children’s screams haven’t already alerted you—that Maria has accepted my marriage proposal, and we will get married in the next weeks.
Now, what does this mean for you? First of all, I want you to take the morning off. Have lunch somewhere and celebrate for us, then come back in the afternoon. Second, I thought we could prepare something special for dinner, to celebrate with the children. Could we manage bread Knödel with gravy, pork roast, and Kaiserschmarrn in abundance for dinner?”
The staff, who had remained professional, except for a few corners of the mouth that had started pulling up, finally was free to reply.
Helga dabbed her eyes, whispering, “Oh, it’s like a fairy tale,” while Trudi grinned, too shy to speak. Frau Schmidt cleared her throat, all business, “A fine match, Captain,” but her voice cracked just enough to betray her.
Betty bubbled, “Oh, Maria… Captain… I am so happy for you!” She couldn’t wait to talk to Maria in private.
“Dinner’s on if Hans drives me for supplies,” Resi chimed.
Georg announced they were now free to go, although Resi and Hans had to make plans for their grocery shopping still. Maria took the chance to go hug her friends, and to ask Betty for her usual advice.
Maria did notice how Helga’s and Trudi’s hugs were already a little more controlled; Betty, for her part, was as affectionate as ever, but she did address the elephant in the room.
“Oh, Maria, I am so happy for you! I knew you were in love, I just knew! But… this means you are going to leave us, so to speak. You’ll be upstairs now, not down with us.”
“Oh, Betty, can’t we still be friends?”
“Yes, we can… and yet we cannot be as it were. I cannot slip up and call you Maria in front of guests; and we cannot have the lady of the house present when we meet as staff to vent about the day. It will all… be different, Maria.”
Maria sighed. “Well, I think I still need your help, lady or friend! Georg is taking me to town, and we are also taking pictures of us! You are the only one who can help me look acceptable!”
“Oh, Maria, this will never change. In fact, it is only fitting that our mistress has her own maid to help with her appearance!”
“This sounds a lot like one of Liesl’s novels, you know, instead of 1926.”
“Liesl is very generous with her suggestions about reading materials,” Betty winked.
And so it was that Maria was dressed in the dress that most enhanced her (“I know you use it mostly at dinner, but it’s rather understated, and it makes you look even more beautiful than you are. We want to keep the Captain happy, don’t we?”) and perfunctorily styled and made up (“This is not the Baroness’s stuff, but it’ll do. Time to buy your own, Maria!”).
Georg then led her to the cars, and made for the Steyr. Maria was suddenly curious about his two cars.
“What is the difference between those two cars?”
“Oh, that one is my first car, an Austro-Daimler AD 6/17. I bought it as soon as it was available, early 1921. Everyone would expect me to stick to Austro-Daimler, a luxury car… and I still cherish it, which is why I have it here. It’s the car we will most likely get married in. But then… I wanted to support yet another Austrian company that’s trying to focus on innovation, on solidity. Therefore, I recently bought this one too, a Steyr XII. I use it for longer trips, or when I don’t need to look elegant.” He looked briefly at her, noticing her sincere interest, not a polite effort to appease him.
With a tone of mocking indignation, she commented, “Georg, you really are a radical! What will the Count and the Baron say? And poor Herr Markl…” Oh, how she loved teasing him! And how he loved being teased!
“I think they will particularly appreciate my marrying a radical. But,” he added, not in jest this time, “I do think the Count and Baron appreciated you deep down. Anyway, more than Herr Markl, whom I will probably have to have barred from the church as to avoid any disturbance.” Georg opened the door for Maria and let her in, giving her a hand and pressing a gallant kiss on it.
“Are you calling all your former comrades-in-arms to guard our wedding? Truly?” She giggled.
“Well, you can imagine that I will invite a few of them. My old comrades-in-arms are loyal to a fault: they’d haul out any fool who dared disrupt us, no orders needed.” Georg was serious about this. He started the engine.
“I just find it funny that I should go from Ottakring to having a wedding with a military escort. Life really surprises us,” Maria observed, half-jokingly, half-serious.
Georg’s voice turned tender and low. “And how do you like recent surprises, Maria?”
“Very much, I like them very much,” Maria’s voice had turned lower as well, and trembled slightly.
Georg parked on Kapitelplatz and turned to Maria with a half-smile, his fingers still resting lightly on the wheel. "Festungsgasse?" he repeated. "The way you first came down?"
Maria nodded, a small, wistful smile curving her lips. "It feels fitting, don’t you think?" she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. It was still strange to her: the easy way they touched now, the warmth of his forearm under her palm, the way his fingers occasionally covered hers in a silent caress. There was nothing measured or hesitant in the way he held her; it was possessive, deliberate, his. For all of Salzburg to see.
By now, the staff had likely spread the news, and the children had probably already announced—loudly—that they would get a new mother soon.
She had left Nonnberg weeks ago, but this… this was different. This was goodbye. And she was not walking away alone. She still found it difficult to fully grasp. Just a day ago, she had been a governess. Now, she was walking into Nonnberg on her fiancé’s arm, preparing to say goodbye to a place she had once thought would be her home for life.
Inside, their farewell was brief: Nonnberg’s rhythm left little room for social pleasantries. Mother Superior, Sister Margarethe, and Sister Bertha all offered their best wishes and prayers, reminding Maria of their spiritual support in the months ahead. The few friends she had made in the Abbey whispered their congratulations, hands squeezing hers in parting, and as she thanked them, a strange realization settled in her chest.
‘I love you. Marry me.’ A simple confession of love had rewritten her life. Those she had once imagined sharing years of prayers and lessons with would soon be separated from her by the Abbey gate, watching as she walked down the aisle in the very church where she had once thought to take her vows.
Her fingers tightened slightly around Georg’s. He squeezed back.
At the jeweller’s, Maria let Georg take the lead. She had no experience with jewels, nor did she particularly care about them—though, as she watched him select a ring with quiet deliberation, she felt a flicker of amusement at how much he seemed to care.
"This one," he finally decided, holding up a delicate gold band set with a modest diamond and a deep blue sapphire.
As the jeweller boxed it, Georg leaned in, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.
"It symbolizes loyalty."
A soft shiver ran through her. The meaning should have been what made her breath catch—loyalty, devotion, the promise of forever. But if she was honest, it was him, the way his voice had dipped, the way his lips nearly grazed her skin. She swallowed and nodded, though she wasn’t sure what she was agreeing to anymore.
Then, before she could recover, he murmured something to the jeweller. A moment later, she saw it: the engraving inside the band.
"For my Maria, 1926."
She swallowed again. And just like that, the ring on her finger wasn’t just a piece of gold and stone—it was his. A claim. A vow. A whisper of what was to come.
Afterward, Georg rewarded her patience with lunch, though not before catching her in an empty side street, pressing her against a doorway and capturing her lips in a kiss that was anything but chaste. His hands settled on her waist, drawing her against him, and when he pulled away, her breath was unsteady, her lips tingling.
His gaze roved over her, satisfaction evident in his smirk. "You look lovely when you’re thoroughly kissed, darling."
She let out a breathless laugh. "You do realize we are in the middle of Salzburg?"
"That’s why I made sure no one was looking." His fingers traced the curve of her cheek before he finally—reluctantly—stepped back. "Come along, before I scandalize the whole town."
They settled on Hinterbrühl, a cozy inn tucked away from the busiest streets. Maria relaxed into the warmth of the room, enjoying the feeling of sitting across from Georg in such an ordinary setting—though nothing felt ordinary anymore. When he reached for her hand across the table, his fingers absently caressing hers, she felt the heat creep up her neck. How was it possible to be this affected by a mere touch?
"A Pfiff?" he teased, glancing at her small glass of beer. "Now that you’re free, I expected you to indulge a little more."
Maria chuckled, swirling the drink in her hand. "I didn’t touch beer for a long time after my first Social Democratic Youth meeting during the war. I had far too much. Or perhaps it was the lack of food that made us all more vulnerable to alcohol."
Georg arched a brow, clearly intrigued. "Something tells me I will want to hear all about your revolutionary years soon. I imagine you found yourself in all sorts of trouble."
"Something tells me that if I share, you will have to return the favour. I do want to hear about your school days."
He hesitated, a flicker of amusement—and something else—crossing his face. "Be prepared for tales of tutors and instructors, music and the sea… and, of course, alcohol and brawls."
Maria pretended to sigh. "Oh, dear. Let’s hope Friedrich and Kurt stay away from alcohol for as long as possible."
Georg chuckled, a rich, low sound. "Well, at least we know we don’t have to deal with that yet. Unless, of course, they’ve simply been clever enough to hide it from you."
Maria feigned horror, and he laughed again, squeezing her fingers beneath the table. The moment felt warm, light-hearted, and yet, beneath it all, there was something deeper—a quiet certainty settling between them. They would share these stories. They would share everything.
For the rest of their lunch, their hands found each other often—under the table, over the table, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the back of his knuckles as he brushed his thumb over hers. And each time, she felt it—the quiet, constant hum of awareness between them, steadily growing stronger.
Their quest for pictures then ensued after lunch, but their photos were not the only … of the day.
The alleyway was empty.
Maria had barely registered the shift—the turn off the main road, the sudden absence of passersby—before Georg’s hands were on her waist and her back was against a cool wooden door. Again.
"Georg—"
She didn’t finish. His lips were on hers, claiming, deepening, pulling a quiet, breathless sound from her throat that startled even her. His hands tightened briefly—one at her waist, the other cradling the back of her head, holding her to him.
Her hands fisted in his coat. She didn’t want to stop this time.
When he finally pulled away, her lips felt swollen, tingling, aching for more. She was still catching her breath when he smirked down at her.
"You will look much better in the picture, darling."
She swatted his arm, but he only laughed, looking at her like he knew. Like he had felt that same spark, that same rush, that same need.
And for the first time, Maria realized that yes—she had fallen in love with him completely. But she had also started to understand what want really was.
The afternoon passed in a haze of stolen kisses and shared glances. Georg, it seemed, had made it his mission to leave her breathless in every secluded corner of Salzburg. By the time they finally arrived at the school to collect Martha and Gretl, Maria was blushing, lips still tingling from his last kiss.
The girls were delighted by the surprise, clinging to Maria’s hands, their joy infectious. Maria, watching Georg help Martha into the car with uncharacteristic gentleness, realized just how important this was. The engagement wasn’t just about them. It was about all of them.
That evening, as they sat at the dinner table, the children buzzing with excitement for both the news of the day and the special treat at dinner table, Maria found herself glancing at Georg more than once. He was slightly more indulgent than usual, letting the children chatter and laugh. And she understood why. He wasn’t just celebrating their engagement—he was celebrating their family.
Louisa, ever the bold one, turned to them, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. "When are you going to marry?"
Georg smiled, his tone smooth, though amusement danced in his gaze. "Soon, Louisa. Soon." He glanced at Maria, squeezing her hand lightly under the table. We will have to plan accordingly.
That, of course, opened the floodgates.
Liesl, always the dreamer, leaned forward, hands clasped. “Will you wear your full-dress uniform, Father? And can I help you choose the dress, Fräulein Maria?”
Brigitta’s forehead creased in sudden concern. "What will we wear?"
Kurt rolled his eyes. "No one will care, Brigitta."
Friedrich, naturally, had to oppose him. "They will care, especially since I think you and I will have to escort Fräulein Maria to the altar in place of her father!"
That made Maria pause for a second. The thought of being given away by the boys rather than walking alone: it filled her with a warmth so deep she had to take a steadying breath before she could answer.
Before she could, though, Gretl tugged on her sleeve, her voice sweet and hopeful. "Fräulein Maria, will you choose my dress?"
Martha clapped her hands, her face lighting up. "Can we sing at the wedding?"
Georg chuckled as he glanced at Maria, clearly enjoying her flustered expression. They tried to answer each question in turn, though the children’s excitement left little room for order.
"Yes, Liesl, I will wear my uniform, and of course, you may come shopping with Maria."
"You will all wear something special that you like," Maria added, reaching over to tuck a stray curl behind Brigitta’s ear. "And we will help you choose."
"Friedrich, Kurt," Georg said, eyeing them with playful sternness, "you may escort Maria, provided you both promise to behave."
The boys tried to look solemn, but their grins betrayed them.
"And yes, darling," Maria murmured to Gretl, brushing a hand over her soft hair, "we will pick your dress together."
"As for the music," Georg said, leaning back with a thoughtful nod, "perhaps not in the church, but at the reception?"
That satisfied them—at least for the moment. The room was still filled with chatter, ideas, and excited plans, and Maria sat back, overwhelmed in the most wonderful way.
She looked at Georg. He was watching the children, his expression relaxed, utterly content.
Yes. This was their family. Their future.
And she couldn’t wait for it to begin.
The click of the door to his study shutting behind them signalled the begin of their first evening together, and most likely the only one they would spend alone. Max was due to return tomorrow, as per his plans; the phone call informing him of the news had certainly cemented his willingness not to postpone. Georg’s retelling of the call had been rather vague: he definitely didn’t want to repeat the series of insults Max had kindly sent his way after learning that he had gotten engaged on one of the three days he had planned on being away.
Georg bade her to sit on the divan near the window, and offered her something to drink. “Tyrolean Schnaps, darling?”
“What is with this obsession with having me drink, Georg? I already accepted your marriage proposal, you know!” Maria had her lopsided smile on, and he chuckled at her witty repartee, the sound rich and deep, a warmth spreading through her as she heard it.
“I haven’t heard ‘no’, so I am pouring for us both. And a glass of water for good measure.” He put down the glasses on the table, and sat next to her. Both were still smiling, but the weight of the intimacy between them was unmistakable. Their usual banter, the liberty to converse or to kiss, their proximity on the divan, facing each other, all in the glow of the lamplight sharpening their features and the silence of Aigen.
Georg reprised, “I seem to recall that someone promised to tell more about her radical years.” He winked at her.
Maria sighed, and then began her tale. “Well, where to begin… I did join the Social Democratic Party for a while, mainly because my uncle, my guardian, was a member too, so I leaned that way myself, despite us not going along. I got many friends that way, although I did lose some of them when I re-entered the Church. As you might have surmised, I did agree on several progressive ideas: you have heard it all already, mainly at the ball. Workers’ rights, women’s rights, education for all, common middle school. I still care for these issues. At that time, I obviously was also fascinated by the idea of a ‘revolution’. I am not sure what I meant by that, but having a lot of angry and hungry people backed by students is obviously a recipe for creating potentially explosive protests, and then the idea of a ‘revolution’ becomes everything and its opposite. It becomes a dream: you think that one day you will ‘do something big’ and all problems will go away.”
Georg nodded, marking that statement for later.
Maria then continued. “Mostly, my time in the party was, as I told you, finding ways to spend time together for free or without spending too much, discussing politics and learning, and, well, sometimes even drinking. But if I really had to confess one thing, it would be this: I did attend the proclamation of the Republic, and I was just one of many on that square; but… I did join the group marching on from Ottakring, together with my friends. I simply felt… there was some energy in that moment, so I felt like I wanted to join, like I had to be a part of it. And that’s how I ended up there!” She giggled with a little bit of embarrassment at her confession.
Georg studied her for a little while, a ghost of a smile still on his lips. Then he replied, “Oh, Maria, how I understand what you felt! I guess it’s my turn to tell you one of my stories.”
“I am thrilled.”
“As you remember, I won my first medal by sinking the French cruiser Léon Gambetta by chasing him against orders. Well, you have to know that I was a young hot-headed officer at the time—if you think of the boys brawling, you will understand what I mean.
I wanted mainly two things: to lift the blockade against Austria-Hungary in the Mediterranean, to alleviate the food shortage, and to ‘do something big’ too, Maria. I think it’s an all-too-common feeling, especially among young people. Maybe not for everyone, of course, but there are more people like us than we think.
So, I secretly chased the cruiser across the Adriatic Sea, studied its behaviour as to plan my attack, and then attacked. Two torpedoes, that’s all it took. All the while knowing that, if anything went wrong and I didn’t have the luck of perishing at sea, I would be court-martialled.
Am I proud I did that? Definitely. Would I do such a thing now? Absolutely not.”
Maria reflected a little on his words, and then agreed in her heart. “I understand,” she said seriously, her gaze on the floor as she was wont to do when she was deep in thought about something she had never considered.
She then added, trying to lighten the atmosphere, “But now we are older and wiser! We wouldn’t do something like waking up people and staying up almost all night just to get engaged, wouldn’t we?” She let out a belly laugh, and Georg's laughter joined hers, a warm rumble that filled the room.
His voice had dropped half an octave as he simply said, “Older and wiser indeed,” and he reached for her, kissing her first tenderly, with a simple pressing of his lips on hers, and then abandoning himself to their already familiar passion. The need to feel the other’s lips paralleled the need they had to just be together, talking or jesting, walking or dancing.
He soon wanted to taste her skin again, and moved to the neck, daring to reach her half-bare shoulder too. She responded by exploring once again his strong back and throwing her head back in total abandon, her sighs intoxicating him.
Georg briefly thought that their seated position was safe enough, their legs keeping them apart, so he didn’t think to keep some of his control. And that was his mistake.
They barely registered how they ended up like this—how the cushions gave beneath her as he guided her back against the divan. One moment, they had been showing each other how much they were in love, a few intense kisses and caresses but nothing beyond the acceptable; the next, his weight was above her, careful, hovering, held away from her body by a moment of lucidity that had him refrain from laying on her. He positioned himself close to her on the divan, yet carefully maintained a distance below the waist, his back supported by the divan, his upper body hovering over her, a mix of closeness and restraint.
He told himself he could keep himself under control like this. And yet, it was a slow descent into madness. She stroked his chest with both hands, once again revelling in his masculine features and in her heat, then made to push away his jacket.
He thought it was just a jacket, and he let her push it away, helping her, immediately rewarded by her hands on her back, their warmth nearer than ever. He claimed her lips again, then, always respectfully hovering over her, caressing her cheek and her hair.
As she moved from his back to his hair, his right hand started tracing the edge of her waist, lingering just shy of where modesty should demand he stop at first —her hipbone, the top of her ribcage. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t push him away:
He went back to exploring her neck, her throat, and her shoulders. She tilted her head back again, inviting him to continue, her whisper of his name a soft plea. He then dared brush his hand over her hip and the outside of her thigh, then ghosted it over the side of her breast. The exploration of her skin stretched to those parts of her decollete that her dinner dress had left exposed.
And when her fingers curled into his hair, when a sound that was neither quite a sigh nor quite a moan escaped her—he swallowed it down with another kiss, silencing her not out of propriety, but because he wanted to feel every response she gave him.
It was intoxicating, watching her come apart beneath his touch, realizing that she wasn't afraid. That she was just as lost in this as he was. But that was exactly why he had to stop.
His breath was uneven as he pulled back just enough to see her. She watched him, still panting, still lost in their passion.
He asked himself whether her lack of fear was because she knew, or assumed, that he would stop.
He wanted to hear what she would say if asked. With another tender caress to her cheek, he asked, his voice dangerously low, “Maria, are you afraid of my passion?”
Her voice was dangerously low, too. “Afraid? No, no. Oh… I cannot think straight when you kiss and touch me. I had no idea love would be… like this.”
He choked on a laughter and leaned his forehead on hers. “Heavens, Maria. You don’t know what you do to me. I love you so much, and I desire you. Ardently. And it does scare me. Do you know why?”
Maria shook her head.
He lifted again his head, in order to be able to see her react. “I dread the thought of you trembling on our wedding night, Maria—not from desire, but fear. I am terrified of seeing you in pain, knowing how much I will be burning for you, when it should be the moment our passion finally can unfold.”
Maria’s expression took a more serious turn. She knew enough from her studies to understand what he meant, and she thought his worry sweet.
She caressed his cheek too.
His breath still uneven, he asked again, his voice low, rough with restraint. “Maria, do you enjoy… do you desire my hands and lips on you?”
She nodded, blushing maddeningly.
In the very same voice, he asked then “Do you trust me?”
The answer was already in her eyes, wide and bright beneath him. But she still swallowed, still nodded.
"Say it," he urged, and the way his thumb traced along her jaw made it impossible to think of anything but him.
"I trust you," she whispered.
Something shifted in his expression, something deep and unreadable, something that made her shiver even before he leaned in and stole the next breath from her lips.
“If I touch you again, will you trust me? Do you trust that I will let you arrive at the altar intact?”
Another whisper. “I do. I do trust you.”
But he needed her to understand. So, he framed her face in his hands, letting his thumbs stroke slow, soothing circles against her skin. “Because… I want us to arrive gradually to our wedding night. I don’t want you to have you fear me, ever. And I want you to feel pleasure, not pain. And I want to touch you, in all the ways I can without taking all there is to have.
Maria’s breath caught, something fragile flickering across her face. And then—slowly, so very slowly—she smiled.
"Then show me," she whispered. "Everything else we can have now."
**EE**
Georg exhaled, her whispered words searing into him, and kissed her—slow, deep, a vow without words. His hands roamed, reverent, tracing her through fabric and against skin, learning her curves with unhurried care. She arched into every touch, her soft gasps urging him on.
She responded to every single touch of his hand, and her whispers reassured him. He studied her when he brushed a particularly sensitive part, to learn her reactions.
When he brushed her breast, she thought she would go mad. Pleasure, Georg had said. That was it, then.
“Again,” she breathed, half-demand, half-plea, her voice trembling with discovery, and he obliged, his lips trailing from her neck to her collarbone, peeling her dress aside to bare her to his gaze. He paused, awed by her beauty, then pressed a kiss to her skin, slow and deliberate, descending, murmuring “You are so beautiful, Maria…”
Maria knew she would die like that. It was maddening, that sweet torture on his skin, until… his lips brushed her nipple, and her moans condensed in a shout. She felt him smile against her, his lips and hands soon doing unspeakable things to her, kissing, suckling, brushing, possessing.
She caught his gaze—his eyes dark with hunger, hers wide with wonder—and the world shattered, her cry echoing in the stillness.
And when she thought that it was over, she felt Georg kissing up her neck again, his hand brushing on her outer thigh, his previous shyness gone. He reached the hem of her dress and then moved over her inner thigh, initiating a slow, tantalising ascent.
Pleasure, he had said. How much of it would there be? Could she stand the slow ascent of his hands on her skin?
She had her answer when he reached her apex, brushing the back of his hand against her, reverently but relentlessly, while watching her intently.
More. There was more, she wanted more.
As if answering her internal plea, Georg, always watching for her reactions, raised the hem of her dress, exposing her legs and underwear. He had already felt her dampness, and now he could admire it too, the unmistakable sign that she was as affected by this as he was. He carefully started to uncover her completely, whispering “Perfect… just perfect…” and Maria, her trust in him unbreakable, helped him get rid of those last barriers.
She was now partially bare before him. She should have felt embarrassed, and maybe a little deep down she was; but the physical and emotional experience of it all had completely taken hold of her, and she knew she wanted him to continue.
His touch returned, softer now, tracing her with a rhythm that stole her breath, his eyes never leaving hers, following Maria’s sighs and moans.
She gasped, overwhelmed, as he found a tender spot that unravelled her, his touch relentless yet reverent. She was emitting sounds she had no idea she could emit. But Georg knew better: he languidly gathered some of her wetness and returned to that spot, his clever fingers taking care of her, his hand resting on her mound.
He kissed her to stifle her loud moans and scream, while continuing his ministration, until… she lost herself in her first peak ever, her scream muffled by his kiss.
When she had come back to earth, she found Georg still watching her intently.
His voice was close, intimate, as if sharing a secret meant for her ears alone. “This… is meant to prepare you for me. Your wetness… it’s to prepare you for me, when we are wed. And that peak of pleasure… that is how it has to be, my love.”
He then kissed her again, only to trail kisses down her throat and her chest, again eliciting those delicious sensations… and then he continued trailing down…
When she felt him go past her navel, she sighed again.
And then she had to stifle her scream herself, with her hand.
He was between her legs. First a few kisses, on the thighs, ascending, to tease her. Then on her, as if to get to know her all over again, and finally his clever tongue repeated what he had just done with his fingers, his hands tenderly holding her inner thighs, his blue eyes always fixed on her, listening and watching.
She soon was lost to that peak sensation again. Only when she found Georg back to his previous position on his side, she wondered whether her hand had stifled her scream enough, because she had completely lost herself.
He gazed at her, tender and satisfied, his handsome face glowing as she caught her breath.
She reacted instinctively. She pulled him close, kissing him fiercely, then hesitated, her hand brushing him as if testing her own daring. She, who had once thought she would never know the touch of a man… and now couldn’t imagine her life without it.
When she had found her courage, she simply ordered “Now you,” her voice a seductive whisper.
He hastily freed himself, and she admired him for the first time, and found it… beautiful from the bottom of her heart, then she tentatively touched him.
She enjoyed hearing him whisper and hiss, the sign that she could affect him, too.
He then spoke with a tremor in his voice, a hint of vulnerability that belied his usual composure, “Let me show you how to do it.”
He took her hand delicately, positioned it, and put his own hand on hers to guide her.
She felt a hard and velvety sensation under her palm, and his face contorted in pleasure was such an incredible reward for her, that she found herself admitting that she liked what she was doing.
He kissed her again, as she continued, the arm he had used as support now anchored to her, and he kept kissing her, deeply, desperately, until his final loud moan drowned in her mouth, too, and his head settled in the crook between her neck and shoulder, conquered by the intensity of what they had just shared.
Maria felt the same, felt almost overwhelmed by the novelty of seeing him like that, in such an intimate, vulnerable moment.
They reprised their kissing soon, basking in their love, slowly building back their initial tenderness. Then he exhaled, pressing his forehead against hers.
“Always tell me what you like, what you want.”
Then a tender peck against her nose. A gentle reminder. “We should stop now.” With lingering care, he smoothed her dress back into place, then covered himself.
The storm of their desire had passed, leaving a quiet shore where only the gentle lapping of affection remained.
He had held himself above her, a taut restraint against the lingering heat, until the last tremor of urgency had subsided in them both. Now, finally assured that the precipice of passion had been safely navigated, he allowed himself to settle against her, the length of his body a comforting weight.
Her arms, still warm from their shared intensity, cradled him close. There, nestled in the soft hollow of the divan, they found a haven of pure tenderness, content in the simple nearness of the other, the quiet joy of connection now unburdened by the need for more.
After a while, a soft reluctance in his voice, he urged, “We really must go to sleep.” Another tender peck.
“I love you so much.”
“I too love you so much.”
For all that they still held back, nothing about this night felt unfinished.
Notes:
Hinterbrühl is one of those places that got destroyed in WWII, so I wanted to pay a tribute to it. (The Kaiviertel raid will be mentioned in the WWII chapters, by the way.)
Chapter 11: The Fellowship of the Wedding Ring, and the Return of the Queen
Summary:
Georg and Maria are eager to plan their wedding simply and discuss their spiritual considerations regarding their relationship. However, their plans are quickly disrupted by the unexpected return of Max, who reminds them of the demands of society for a proper aristocratic wedding. To face those demands, and to meet them, they need support: from friends, and from the Queen of Viennese society.
Through lively conversations and humorous interactions, the chapter reveals the established friendships between Max, Elsa, and Georg, tracing their connections back to Georg's time in the Naval Academy. (The rest of the story will be revealed in ch. 23.)
Despite the societal pressures, Georg and Maria continue to seek private moments and discuss the deeper implications of their love and faith.
The chapter introduces Georg's sister-in-law Joan Whitehead, seen in the prologue.
Notes:
The title is a direct tribute to J.R.R. Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings".
The "Putsch" mentioned in the text refers to the failed 1923 Hitlerputsch, also known as the Beer Hall Putsch
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The children had already left for school, and only Georg and Maria remained at the breakfast table—finally sitting side by side rather than across from each other. Newspapers in hand, coffee in fine china, they settled into a quiet, shared routine, indulging in the simple pleasures of the morning: the invigorating essence of the bean, the rustle of paper, and the occasional exchange of smiles or witty remarks.
Every now and then, their hands brushed as they reached for their cups. A fleeting touch, a quiet acknowledgment of yesterday’s promise.
It had been a day of revelations: emotional, physical, and deeply personal. A day that had tested boundaries and convictions. Were Georg’s arguments enough to justify what had happened? Was the boundary intact, or had they simply convinced themselves it was?
It was a discussion worth having. One they might have started right there, over coffee and the morning paper.
They were about to.
Then the door slammed open.
Loud, echoing footsteps filled the hall.
A booming, theatrical voice shattered the peace.
“GOOD MORNING, EVERYONE—NEWLY ENGAGED OR NOT!”
Georg exhaled through his nose. He set his newspaper down.
Maria blinked, adjusting to the abrupt shift from quiet contemplation to… Max.
Betty and Franz could be heard welcoming him back, but the footsteps didn’t stop. They marched straight for the coffee.
Max burst in, suitcase in hand, newspaper tucked under one arm, coat half-falling off his shoulders. Franz trailed behind, exasperated, trying to collect the discarded layers.
He threw Georg a look. A very particular look—the same one he reserved for an opera singer who had just ruined a perfectly good aria.
Then, finally, he sat down. In Maria’s seat. Opposite Georg.
“Well.” He sighed dramatically. “I guess coffee is always welcome—especially when one has had to flee Munich at dawn to resume one’s chaperoning duties in Salzburg.” He tapped the newspaper. “Anyone want to trade a Münchner Neueste Nachrichten for a Salzburger Volksblatt?”
Georg and Maria exchanged a glance, part confusion, part amusement. Then, almost in unison, they chuckled.
“What is this all about, Max?” Maria asked, smirking. “Did you fear you wouldn’t get an invitation to the wedding?”
Max gave a pointed sigh. “This is about the fact that I was gone for three days. And on the second day of my absence, Georg proposes.” He turned to Maria. “I’m not sure what you’ve already discussed with your fiancé, but I’ll say this: you need a chaperone now more than ever.”
Maria raised an eyebrow. “I just don’t see how a few hours would have made any difference.”
Max scoffed. “Elsa and I have spent a considerable amount of time preserving both of your reputations in salons and social circles—highlighting your virtues, I might add. I am not letting you ruin our efforts in a single day.”
A sip of coffee.
A deadly stare.
“Speaking of which.” Another pause, deliberate, theatrical.
“Elsa sends her regards.”
Another pause.
“…And her congratulations.”
Another pause.
“…And her plans for the societal part of your engagement.”
Maria and Georg were completely lost.
Maria asked, “Elsa? Are we talking about Baroness von Schräder?”
Max filled in, “Yes, dear. Elsa is an old friend of us both, and of course she would guard Georg’s reputation—and, by association, yours.”
Georg added, “That is what she does best. And Max, too. Connect with people, charm them, to control the conversation, the gossip, or possible investments.”
Maria realised that she needed to learn more about Georg’s friends and sphere. Her head filled with a lot of questions, mostly beginning with why.
Georg did voice one of her questions. “I still don’t understand why you both, and she in particular, would want to be so directly involved in our plans for our engagement and wedding. We are grateful for your societal efforts, and we will definitely never forget your help, but it is still our life together we are starting. Maria, myself, and the children.”
“Yes, a wonderful life beginning with a social suicide, like, I don’t know, having all the best families in town learning about it from their children, who have learned it from your children in the immortal words ‘Father and our governess are getting married!’. Oh, or marrying too soon.”
Georg and Maria looked partly guilty, and partly astonished.
“Excuse me, Max, but even the Mother Abbess agreed that we should marry soon, since we are already a family, after all.”
Maria’s blush told Max that there were other considerations in their minds than the wellness of the children, and braced for his tete-a-tete with Georg later.
“I am not sure how…honest I should be with you…” he said, looking at Maria.
“Max, just out with it!” barked Georg.
“Well, we would not want to give the impression that a hasty wedding is… necessary. The handsome Captain and his beautiful, intelligent governess… your performance at the ball will not be forgotten for a while—political agreement, blushes and stares, you remember. We have been rather successful to remember that you are two exceptional individuals, and therefore would not just… you know… enter sordid territory. But we never know. People do like to talk. They might even do it innocently, trying to paying tribute to the indisputable romance of your story.”
This time, not only Maria blushed, but Georg looked like a naughty schoolboy caught by the headmaster.
Maria, bravely, reprised. “I suppose there is a difference between marrying in haste and marrying soon. We were not thinking of getting marrying in a few days, but maybe… in a month?”
Hell broke lose. Max almost had a heart attack, saying that the earliest they could do would be after the Christmas festivities, in January, whereas Georg and Maria simply refused to wait so long, quoting the Mother Superior’s words and mentioning the need for the children to normalise their life. Their conversation seemed more like a verbal brawl than an exercise in social skills, with them constantly talking over each other and almost shouting. Betty had come to bring more coffee, and fearedtrain getting somehow involved.
In the end, Maria resorted to the lowest of blows. “Well, if you don’t like our plans, we will just elope. Won’t we, Georg?”
A nod of assent followed, and Max knew then he had to be more accommodating, to carve at least a decent role for him and Elsa in the plans, or they would do just that.
Georg continued in Maria’s stead. “The tenth of October will do just fine. A little over a month from now.”
“A month? A month? Do you think Salzburg’s and Vienna’s entire couture industry exists solely for your whim, Georg? Do you intend to personally oversee the enslavement of Austria’s and Bavaria’s finest seamstresses?”
Georg, completely unfazed, took another sip of coffee. “I intend to pay them all very well.”
Maria tried, weakly, “I don’t need that much—”
“Maria,” Max cut in, leaning forward like a priest delivering a particularly dire sermon, “You may not see it now, and the Republic might not agree with it, but you are about to become a Baroness. This means new clothes. Many new clothes. This is not negotiable.”
Max looked at her and Georg with a knowing expression that let them know he would not admit any reply other than a silent assent.
Then he continued. “Georg, we also need to tell the Whiteheads: Joan might even be able to help me chaperone for the entire time, not sure about Frankie and Bobby, definitely not Constance with her daughter—and your sister. Did you tell your sister, at least?”
“Oh, dear, I am sure she will forgive me telling her after a day. She has her own life, you know? Her art?”
“Yes, yes. In fact, her collaboration might be useful too. I think she should talk to Elsa. But for now, let’s establish some ground rules, shall we?”
He straightened his cuffs and looked at them as if addressing particularly slow students.
“Rule number one: I will grant you your precious private moments, but there will be no closed doors. None. The entire town already has questions, and we are not giving them answers they can embellish.”
His gaze flickered between them, as if daring them to object. Georg merely raised a brow, while Maria pressed her lips together, looking both amused and exasperated.
“Rule number two: You will be followed most of the time. The excuse is chaperoning, but the reality is that you are now Salzburg’s favourite scandal-in-waiting, and I will not allow you to become one.”
A significant pause. “And lastly, rule number three: This house will be a revolving door of visitors and well-wishers. You will entertain them. You will be gracious. And you will smile. Because if I hear one word—one whisper—suggesting that you two have locked yourselves away like star-crossed lovers in a Goethe tragedy, I will personally see to it that Elsa plans your social schedule and oversees the choice for clothing.”
Maria made a face. Georg exhaled through his nose.
“Good. Now, if you will forgive me, Maria, I must steal your future husband away for some gentlemanly conversation.”
“Ah, Georg, Georg. I should have known. Your usual war tactics—patiently pursue your target across the warm August seas, then strike at the perfect moment. And conveniently, while good old Max was in Munich, discussing how to bring more jazz to Vienna.”
“Oh, so that’s why Elsa was with you!”
Max raised a brow. “Changing the subject already? How disappointingly predictable. You know I am really angry with you, right?”
“Forgive me for wanting my engagement to the woman I love to be a private moment!”
“Forgive me for not trusting you around your fiancée. I still don’t know how we managed with Agathe—probably the looming wrath of the Countess. But this time?”
He sighed. “Georg, I know you. I know how deeply you fall in love. And I know you are a man fondly remembered by former lovers.”
A pause. A slow, deliberate glance.
“And I know Maria.”
Georg didn’t reply, but his fingers tapped the desk. Max continued, relentless:
“She’s not a calm aristocrat who sits back, patiently thrilled to be in love with her dashing Captain. That woman has the same fire in her as you, in every aspect of life.”
Now Georg finally looked at him, but Max wasn’t done.
“And since you always bring up the children—let me remind you, they know how to count. If a new little Trapp arrives too soon, even they will do the math. And then, my dear friend, I will enjoy watching Liesl, in a few years, give you that very same look and say, ‘You didn’t wait either.’”
Georg pressed his lips together, saying nothing. His fingers fidgeted with a pen, tapping against a sheet of paper.
Max watched. He didn’t like it one bit.
Max’s gaze flicked to the new photographs. The couple. Maria alone.
“Oh, how nice.”
A pause. He leaned in slightly, narrowing his eyes.
“Well, at least this proves you spent some time in town. Not bad. Betty lend her a lipstick, perchance? That shade—interesting. Not too bold, but—pardon my audacity—it makes her look rather… fantastic.”
Georg continued fidgeting. “I… it’s not really the kind of conversation I usually take part in.”
Max observed his friend, then looked at the picture again. “Great, so you’ve been passionately kissing her in town. Not too bad. We’ll manage.”
A pause, long enough to be suspicious. Then, with deliberate nonchalance:
"Promise me Maria will marry in a white, figure-revealing dress, and that there will be no new Trapp on the way.”
Georg hesitated, just a fraction longer than Max liked. Not because he disagreed, but because yesterday’s conversation with Maria was still lingering in his mind.
"Of course. We wouldn’t want it any other way, believe me.”
Max studied him. Something about his friend’s expression stirred a long-buried memory—one he had no desire to relive.
Fiume. A warm summer evening. And one of Georg’s pre-Agathe lovers, blissfully drunk, waxing poetic about his… talents.
Max had tried to wash it from his brain with litres of Dalmatian wine that night. In vain.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself back to the present. Some things, no matter how much he loved his former student and comrade, were best left to those who had lived them.
Max exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Georg, you do understand that I am not fond of you finding loopholes.”
A beat. A knowing glance.
“When two people are this much in love, there are too many ways things can go wrong. And regret—well, regret is a tiresome companion.”
Georg said nothing. Max clicked his tongue.
“Then again, it’s your life. We three uncles and one aunt can’t watch you all day. Though, now that I think of it… one of us bachelors could take turns sleeping in your room.”
That got a reaction. Georg groaned, rubbing his face, while Max grinned like a cat who had just knocked a vase off the table.
The plans were finally put into motion, and Maria felt those feelings from yesterday about the changes in her life come back. It was real, and it was happening. Not just Georg and she, but the new Trapp family, with its past, its present, and its future.
She and Georg were more interested in their own moments, in the moments with the children, and in talking about how they would live and carry out their being partners as master and mistress of an estate: a thing that once again made them both laugh for the striking contrast to Maria’s past in Ottakring and other less glamourous parts of Vienna. However, reason and Max did make them face the many boring tasks, the involvement of the family, the demands of society.
The Whiteheads were informed, and Joan, Agathe’s sister, agreed to come and help Max. “She will leave the Countess with the Auerspergs. Which also reminds me: you will have to visit the Countess. We definitely need to have her blessing. We might try a weekend, to bring the children too.”
At Maria’s worried look, Georg replied, “Agathe’s mother is a very nice woman, although obviously old-fashioned. She already has a good opinion of you because of the children’s praise. Same as all the family.”
“Oh, yes, both Mr Whiteheads did tell me about it.”
“That is all she will care about, that her grandchildren are loved. She was prepared to see me marry a bland society woman who might only have had a mild sympathy for the children; why would she object to having them happy?”
Maria did feel slightly more heartened; but then, it was still meeting Agathe’s mother as someone who would take her daughter’s place.
Max added: “Speaking as a representative of society, I can confirm that you will have to get used to more… complicated situations than usual; situations that might not fit into your charming Weltanschauung made of passion and logic. The Countess will be able to bear with the idea that there is going to be a new Baroness von Trapp, believe me. You knew that Elsa was considering marrying Georg herself, I suppose?”
“Frau Schmidt did tell me, yes. I assumed they both thought it would not work and decided otherwise, while staying here at the villa. It wasn’t exactly my business, so I didn’t ask what the exact reason was.”
“And yet, she now looks forward to being your friend, too,” explained Max with a suspicious glee. “There are expectations and obligations in society. It was expected of Georg that he marry, to have someone to assist him with the children’s entrance into society, and Elsa was a good option—a good friend, an elegant and connected woman who would have loved another sparking ornament to bring along to her events. Believe me, she was not in love with your man; no need to be jealous. She does have eyes, and she knows Georg is dashing, but… she is just not… a woman like you, Maria.”
Georg interjected, “I just think I should add: it’s just as you thought, and as Max says. I had the family talk me into remarrying, but my heart was never into it. I had many doubts already; and when I started falling in love with you, I knew it was no use.”
The Whitehead brothers announced that would sometimes pass by, but they would only be able to stay longer just before and after the wedding. Constance, Georg’s sister-in-law, was bound to her daughter’s school schedule, so they would only come for the wedding; she would stay with the Countess during the weekends. Hede would come for the wedding, too, too busy with her art, but she was thrilled to have her younger brother in love and happy again.
“My sister Hede says hello, and she says she loves you already. She will bring you some of her art as a present, for you only—not for me!” Georg looked like a boy again.
“Is she the oldest one?”
“Yes. I am the second; Werner was our baby.” Georg sighed at the memory of his fallen brother. Maria caressed his cheek. Georg added, “You are going to like his wife. Guess what… she was a governess herself, and, well, she and my brother fell in love!”
Maria’s mouth fell open. She blinked once. Then twice. Then, without warning, a laugh burst out of her—bright, delighted, completely uncontrollable.
She had to grip Georg’s arm for balance, shaking her head as she tried to catch her breath. “So, is this a family tradition now?” she managed between fits of laughter. “Do all von Trapp men just take one look at the governess and—poof!—fall hopelessly in love?”
Georg chuckled, half-embarrassed, half-amused. “Apparently. Though, to be fair, it’s not exactly a bad strategy. And it’s not my fault that I found in my hall a beautiful woman looking at my flag dreamily and then saluting me in a disarmingly charming way.”
Maria rolled her eyes, still laughing. “Oh, wonderful. That means I should be expecting some secret society of former governesses at the wedding, all comparing notes on how to handle future opportunities in Trapp households?”
Georg gave her an exaggeratedly solemn nod. “With matching uniforms, no less.”
Max could not let them get away with it. “Georg, are you telling me that you fell in love with Maria the first time you saw her?”
The couple looked a little embarrassed. “Well, I definitely was intrigued immediately,” explained Georg.
“I was… surprised that he was not an old sea captain, and I certainly noticed he was handsome and witty, but then he ruined it all with his whistle and discipline, and I disliked him for a while.” Georg let out a cough, as to moralise about Maria’s extreme reaction to him at the time.
Max stopped them right there. “Well, Elsa did call you ‘Lady Lovely Nun’ for a reason.”
Maria and Georg chorally exclaimed, “Elsa called me what?” and “Elsa called her what?”
“’Lady Lovely Nun’. You have to admit it, it is genius! That tiny bit of bite that acknowledged you were a danger to her plan, and then the earnest admission of your worth, of your charm. It was her pet name for you every time she talked about you with me. Believe me, now that you are on the same side, you are going to love her. Imagine her destroying someone who has been spreading falsehoods about you!”
In the afternoon, Georg and Maria were allowed to take a walk through the garden, with Max on the terrace on the back scolding them. “I am here, peacefully reading. Do not make me come chase after you!”
“Georg, how will we ever scold the children again, when we’re just as bad as they are, according to Max?” Maria, leaning with tenderness on his arm, had her usual playful glint in her eyes.
“Oh, Maria, we are still the adults. We can do whatever we want,” he smirked while letting his gaze linger on her and squeezing her hand. “Well, almost, as per society’s mandate, apparently.”
Maria thought a little about his sentence, and then shared what she had been nursing in her head. “It is not just society that has its demands, I fear. I think it is an interesting discussion to have; what demands of society and of our faith are reasonable, and what not. We did protest against having the wedding pushed back, and we will definitely tell people when something does not fit into our plan for our future. And yesterday… yesterday we shared what we thought about an important part of our relationship, and we chose to respect a certain boundary in a way that made sense to us.”
“Do you regret what happened, my love?”
“Oh, darling, no, no. Absolutely not. And I think your arguments make sense. But are they enough? Or is it just a lie we are telling us? Did we respect the boundary?”
“We did respect the boundary we set.”
“I fear… it might not be enough for us to be fit for Communion. But, Georg, please don’t misunderstand me—I don’t regret it. Not for a second. I only think we should… talk about it openly.”
Georg nodded, his expression calm.
“And I do agree with everything you said about why we did it. Every word. And I’d be a liar if I claimed I didn’t like it.”
Maria was as red as she could possibly become.
“I am just thinking about how things can change, in a matter of seconds. You told me you love me, and the poor orphan and postulant is suddenly… a woman with her man, planning their life, no aspect forgotten. And, most likely, no Eucharist until our wedding,” she said with a slow, knowing smile.
“As for your observation, I will have to remind you that I am known for occasionally doing what is right, and not what is ordered,” his lopsided smile accompanied his statement. “Which is what we did. I will not have you in tears on our wedding night, and if my being a sinner until our wedding is the price to pay, I will gladly pay it. As for your last sentence… you are killing me, my love!” His throat seemed to close as he said that. “I am afraid we will have to struggle to find a few real private moments, but I promise we will find them. But not now, not today. Max was positively scandalized. I wouldn’t put it past him to send a search party.”
Their long, passionate kisses were the only liberty they granted themselves, but it was enough, as long as it was them. Not society, not the Church, just them.
The first of their guests to arrive was, as they could have surmised, Joan Whitehead, an elegant woman who reminded Maria of her brothers more than of the children’s mother as seen in photograph.
Maria, in what looked every day more like a training for her future, had been instructed to invite her to one of the sitting rooms—a cozy one would do for someone from the family, Elsa had said over the phone. Betty tried to make her courage while bringing the usual herbal teas and lemonades, noticing her tension. “It’s family, Maria. If she had any objections, she wouldn’t be here. And from what I hear, her sister was a lovely woman, and her brothers seem quite fond of you. Everything will be fine.”
Joan did enter the chosen sitting room with a polite smile, and was immediately forthcoming.
“I was rather jealous of my brothers. Finally, I met the miraculous woman myself! I know Bobby and Frankie already have told you, but we are all so thankful for what you did with the children. They are all so dear to us!”
“It was very easy to love them. They do have their own personalities, and might get spirited, but they are so openhearted!”
Joan sipped some of her herbal tea, and her mouth crooked in a smile. “From Max’s usual outrageous comments, I seem to understand that you are not just marrying out of love for the children, or out of other considerations, such as companionship.”
Maria was rather unprepared for such a remark. “Oh… oh, heavens, no.” Her trademark blush had taken possession of her, and she struggled for words. What could she tell Agathe’s sister? What was she supposed to say? ‘Oh no, we’re madly in love. In fact, we’re counting the days until we don’t have to wait anymore’?
Joan noticed Maria’s embarrassment, and came to the rescue. “My dear, there is nothing to be embarrassed about. Georg is a very dear man, and he deserves to be happy. Forgive me my bluntness, but if Georg himself has finally realised that nothing could bring back my sister, you could imagine that we, the rest of the family, must have reached that conclusion far earlier. From what I have heard, you have been talking with the children about their mother from the beginning, encouraging them even to keep their memories alive, and doing it even with Georg. I do not fear them forgetting their mother. We are going to be family, Maria, and I will be happy to welcome you to the family. We have suffered enough; we have nothing to gain in opposing you just because ‘you are not my sister’; we stand to gain more from opening our arms to you.”
Maria felt the weight in her chest loosen, just a little. She hadn’t realized how much she had feared rejection, even when all the signs pointed to the opposite. Joan’s words were a balm.
“Thank you, you are very kind. And I most certainly don’t want anyone to forget your sister.” Her voice almost broke. She would never regret falling in love with Georg, but she did sometimes think about how… difficult to grasp it was to think that her happiness had come because a young woman had been swept away by scarlet fever. And yet, Joan was right: Agathe was not coming back, and everyone was aware of it. Last but not least, the man who had mourned her the most.
Joan reprised. “Now, enough of gloomy thoughts. I am curious about you. I have heard you are a lively, educated and intelligent woman who also loves sports, and who is a little bit of a rebel. Like Georg himself, after all. Tell me about you, before we start talking about fashion!”
Maria resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands. Oh, dear. The request she was sure to hear over and over again—and one that might be even more disastrous than discussions of death and grief!
Maria recalled her experience at the ball, and—drawing on it—began her tale.
Coming back from Munich, where Max had left her to discuss the merits of introducing jazz as a companion to waltzes, polkas, and the usual Austrian fare, Baroness Elsa von Schräder arrived in all of her glory on Friday afternoon. The unmistakable hum of an approaching taxi signalled her arrival like a fanfare before a royal entrance, alerting Franz —who, as a trained professional, kept his reaction to a polite nod—and then the entire family, who had absolutely no such restraint.
Louisa and Liesl, who were just then returning from school and saw the car first, immediately launched into high-pitched shrieks of excitement and dashed inside to summon everyone, their voices echoing through the house like sirens announcing an incoming invasion.
By the time the taxi actually stopped, the entire household had spilled out onto the steps, gathering as if to receive a visiting dignitary. Or a circus performer. Elsa suspected that, in the children’s minds, there was little distinction.
She emerged from the car effortlessly as if she were descending from a throne, her coat draped over one shoulder, a cigarette holder dangling elegantly between her fingers. The taxi driver, who had likely seen all sorts in his time, still hesitated a moment before unloading her bags, as if unsure whether mere mortals were allowed to touch the possessions of Baroness von Schräder. And the Baroness, of course, enjoyed his reactions, as she always enjoyed noticing the power she could have over people.
She stopped in silence, and looked at the ensemble. She didn’t really understand why the children were there waiting for her, but then again, she never understood why those children weren’t in a boarding school.
(Oh, yes, Georg and his ideas. That was why.)
As for the new couple… they were trying to look like the quintessential aristocratic couple, her leaning on his perfectly positioned arm. But their smile betrayed them. Unfortunately for them, those smiles ruined the effect. Sixteen years ago, a respectable couple would have never allowed themselves such an openly sentimental display in public (Georg and Agathe had learned it the hard way). Now? Apparently, one could even gather sympathy for gazing at each other like a pair of besotted characters from a provincial romance novel.
(Well, they were besotted, and they lived in the province…)
Looking more accurately, she noticed Georg’s usually perfect hair being slightly out of pace, his tie being slightly askew, and… heavens, why was Maria’s neck slightly red, as if something had rubbed on it? What were those two incompetent chaperones doing? Shouldn’t they be tied each to one of the lovers?
The two chaperones looked impassible. Oh, that would change soon.
There was a lot to do, here.
“Good evening! So many dear acquaintances gathered here! That is very nice of you! It seems like Maria’s radical ideas on education still consider a proper reception a significant part of good manners. That is very kind of you, my dears!”
She paused to look at them in a noticeable way, to make them feel under scrutiny. Then she reprised.
“I have come to save you from any form of societal faux-pas, and I have good reason to think that I am already too late. Please tell me you haven’t begun shopping for clothing!”
Liesl, completely oblivious to Elsa’s tone, answered in all honesty, “We might try to have a first round for Fräulein Maria’s things today, before the shops close. Otherwise, there is tomorrow morning.”
“Who is ‘we’, dear?”
“Myself, Fräulein Maria, Aunt Joan, maybe also Brigitta. Oh, and you, of course, Baroness, now that you are here.”
Elsa hummed noncommittally. She supposed Brigitta must have been one of the younger girls. Why should she come, too? Liesl, the oldest one, she might understand. In fact, she should praise Maria for being already so attuned to the challenge posed by the girl’s debut. But why in the world should Brigitta, who was, what, ten? eleven? have a say in a Baroness’s trousseau? What was next, the children choosing the tableware?
“Well, there is no need to stand here. Let’s go inside.” She made to move inside while signalling Franz to pick up her things. “Max, Joan, I require your attention immediately. Georg, Maria, what were you doing before I arrived?”
“We were going over the main issues related to the estate, to introduce Maria to her new role in that compartment.”
“In your study, I suppose.” I guess those accounting books must have been very exciting. Or very boring. “I trust you won’t find it too inconvenient to sit in the next room like well-behaved members of society while we attempt to salvage this situation? Maybe sing with the children as we discuss things. You all have lovely voices; it will be a nice musical reception this time, now that we are miraculously free from thunderstorms and related incidents.”
The couple had no idea if Elsa’s suggestion was only due to the setting, or if she had suspected that the inspection of the estate’s book had made room for a few tender and passionate moments. Anyway, they obeyed, outmastered in their home by the self-assured attitude of a real queen of society.
Max and Joan were immediately taken to task. “Why exactly were those two alone in Georg’s study when there is two of you? And Joan, is it really necessary to take the younger girls shopping for the core of Maria’s necessaire?”
Max tried a defence. “Elsa, accounting books are not exactly the kind of task that might lead to… romance. Especially since they take the entire estate management thing rather seriously.”
Joan added, “Georg and Maria want the children to feel a part of the preparation.”
Elsa let out a moan of frustration. “You didn’t see Georg’s tie and hair, and neither did you notice Maria’s neck. Forgive me, Joan. As for the children, I am rather sure you can make them feel involved in many ways, but the wedding dress and Maria’s new clothing are not an occasion for sappy family moments. You might take them shopping for their dresses, instead!”
Max replied, “Yes, the happy couple had thought exactly of that.”
“It’s comforting to know that someone seems to have their intellectual capacities almost intact. It is not as comforting to think that they are the couple and not the chaperones, if you know what I mean.”
And just like that, Elsa von Schräder took charge.
She summoned Maria, Joan, and Liesl for a first quick foray into town to begin a first recognition for shops to have the wedding dress and a few important pieces done as soon as possible. She appreciated that Joan and Liesl had clearly helped Maria think in terms of how important this all was.
“Maria, dear, I feared I would have to drill into you the importance of looking the part. But it seems the task has already been accomplished.”
“I would never want to make things more difficult for Georg, not in any way. And… I have been talking with him a lot. You might have a lot of prejudices about us from the lower classes, but we do have our prejudices ourselves.”
“Maria, you are going to be aristocracy soon. I forbid you from thinking about you as a working-class girl still. That ring you are wearing would not be seen in your old circles.”
“Baroness…”
“Elsa. I am a good friend of your new family; we are going to be friends.”
“Well, Elsa, I am not ashamed of my roots, and they are a part of me.”
“It is very admirable, my dear, but keep it for your beloved discussions with Georg.”
Elsa identified immediately the proper shop where to have the wedding dress done by the attitude of the modiste and by the quality of the available fabric. The dressmakers were rather worried about the tight schedule, but the promise of a generous reward by the Captain, not to mention the opportunity to gain the new Baroness as a customer, removed any obstacle.
“Maria, dear, show me the fabric you prefer. Liesl, could you go and look what they have in that corner over there?” Elsa let Liesl go away and then reprised, “Remember, Maria, that your dress will have to be figure-revealing. I guess Max has already explained to you why. This is essential; also, you do have an incredible figure. This will be interesting for your evening and ball dresses. Oh, I still remember you in my own dress… I should have been more furious, but in the end, I thought ‘I just made the party even more interesting’. I think some gentlemen might even try to stop your wedding out of desperation.”
Maria knew then that her time with Elsa as a new friend would be rather interesting.
As a matter of fact, that evening, the adults gathered for some friendly conversation, and Maria’s world shifted further away.
The drink was champagne, to celebrate the meeting of friends under such happy tidings. And, speaking of friendship, Maria was rather curious about the start of certain friendships.
“Elsa, how did you meet Georg? I have heard you have been long friends. I suppose you don’t need to hear my own tale.”
“Oh, Georg didn’t tell you how we became friends?” Maria suppressed the temptation of saying We have topics and activities enough to fill our time spent together. “It was Max, obviously. Well, partly Max, who introduced us, partly our mutual connection to the Auerspergs. We met while attending a small party in Lower Austria, a few years before the war. Max knows everyone everywhere. He really is a master!”
“So, you met Agathe too?”
“Of course, dear. We were all good friends after the war, when the family finally moved to Austria. We mostly met in Vienna and Lower Austria, as usual.”
“Oh, how nice!” Maria blocked her real thought, How could she marry him if she was friends with his first wife? Weird.
Joan interjected, “That is also how the entire family on my side knew her.”
Maria’s curiosity was not satisfied. “And what about you, Max? Your friendship seems rather established, but you are so different! It is so fascinating!”
At her request, Max started laughing in an undignified manner, Elsa tried to stifle a giggle in her own elegant manner, and Georg put on his well-known menacing stare. Only Joan seemed as flabbergasted by these reactions as she was.
“Did I say something wrong?”
Still under Georg’s threatening scrutiny, Max began his reply. “Oh, no, no, dear. It is just that… well, I will try to tell my tale in a way fit for your and Joan’s ears.”
Georg fidgeted with his champagne flute, reminding him of the flute he broke after his theatrical marriage proposal at the ball. Max knew he had to tread carefully. Maria imagined the outrageous impresario must have a rather… interesting story to tell.
“You see, Maria. I come from a rich family from Vienna. Very rich, but no title. Bankers, well introduced in high society and absolutely welcome anywhere. When I was young, I… well, I loved being the young son of a rich, connected banker in Vienna! I was a total rake and a wastrel, exploiting every occasion life gave me to enjoy what was to be enjoyed, with no thoughts to the future.”
Elsa could not resist. “Now, he is only a scoundrel with a few rakish tendencies.” She giggled again and pulled out one of her cigarettes.
Georg threatened Elsa too with his stare.
Max reprised. “My father did not particularly appreciate my dilapidating the family’s money on hedonistic pursuits. He saw a threat to the family’s standing in me. So, what did he do? He sent me to the Naval Academy in Fiume as a punishment. I was about 16 at the time, so I was slightly older than usual—most cadets begin at 14 or 15.”
“So, you met Georg in Fiume? In the NAVY? I cannot believe it!”
“Oh, Maria, that’s not the end of the story. It’s only the beginning. You see, at first, I hated my father so much for what he had done. But then, when I was at the Academy, I realised something. That wearing a uniform was a great means to continue accessing that kind of life that I found so interesting. It gives you charm, connections, the opportunity to travel and visit as many salons as possible. Especially if you do not pursue an active career like your future husband did. So, I decided that I would become the best student the Academy had ever seen, in order to be able to become a tutor, first, and an instructor later. All the advantages of being an officer, very few of the disadvantages of active service on a ship or at a base.
I aced my objective. I became very soon a tutor, and then stayed on as an instructor. I was able to enjoy the pleasures of life not just in Fiume and Pola, but also in the entire Cisleithania and Transleithania, in Venice, in Germany… all while doing my duty of recruiting new cadets and of keeping the image of our naval officers up. I started developing my social skills further, and I became a society man, not just an esteemed instructor at the Naval Academy. I started organising events myself, to keep Fiuman society alive and to strengthen the connection of our academy with the territory. Which is also why I now work as an impresario.”
Joan added, “That is also how my family got to know him. I think all of us remember Max from our childhood, or close.”
“True. The Whiteheads offered me entrance to engineering know-how, connections to English society and to Austrian aristocracy—their mother was the daughter of a Count, and still is called ‘Countess’ despite her being now a commoner.
Anyway. At the beginning of the century, who walks in at our Naval Academy? A passionate, intelligent, and handsome cadet, your own future husband. He impressed me immediately for his skills, his dedication, his interest for more experimental technology, and his… charm.”
Georg glared at him in the most venomous way possible.
“So, I was happy to be his instructor, and I offered myself as a tutor and… friend. I knew that boy would make a career, and I wanted to support him; also, having as a friend a young man like Georg was very important to be even more appreciated in society. Case in point, my introducing him to the Whiteheads: he was first drawn in for the relevance to his career, but then… we all know that part of the story.
So, here it is; we were in the Navy, one could say. But being an instructor kept me away from real danger, even during the war. I managed to participate in society in Vienna as much as I could during that time. Which is where I deepened my friendship with Elsa, another society person just like myself.”
“One of our fondest memories together is Max bringing some smuggled liquor to one of my events. I believe Bobby and Frankie did play a role in it, too!”
Maria watched Georg, who was finally returned to a relaxed and friendly expression. Was he worried Max would reveal some details of his life not fit for unmarried women?
Then she had a realisation.
Maybe he feared Max would reveal something about his youth?
Maria wasn’t naïve; she knew men, even extraordinary men like Georg, were encouraged to have experiences with women before marrying. As much as she found it unfair, she thought that she was now to be the only beneficiary of Georg’s past (and had already satisfactorily begun sampling said experience).
She needed a distraction—something clever, something that would steer her away from handsome lovers, their skills, and the dangerous territory of jealousy."
“Isn’t it interesting how we are all gathered here together, so many different stories, now set to be friends for life? And all because the Mother Abbess sent me here! Speaking of which, a pity I cannot make use of that fabulous nickname anymore, how was it? ‘Lady Lovely Nun’? I do thank you for calling me a lady and lovely, Elsa. That is not the kind of moniker I used to get in Ottakring, you know.” Her slow, knowing smile tried to convey that she was not offended.
Elsa’s cigarette slipped from her fingers, landing unceremoniously on the table.
“Max, you blabbed, didn’t you?”
Maria defended Max. “Oh, Elsa, he did nothing wrong. He is right, it was a clever pet name, and it barely hid a few compliments, too. I think Georg is more outraged. I, on the other hand, still laugh when thinking about it.”
Georg explained, “That was petty, Elsa. She never did anything to you”
“Yes, yes, Georg, the white knight all the time. See, Maria finds it entertaining. I sometimes think you two are bound to influence each other in a negative way, but in cases such as this, my dear Maria, I hope you can make him see the bright or the lighter side of things.
Of course, if I ever hear you two lead again a conversation about Austria’s future at a table where I am sitting, such as the one at the ball here, I am going to invent very different monikers, and I will have them stick. At a certain point at the ball, I feared a triple duel between Georg, Herr Zeller and Herr Markl.”
Maria didn’t resist. “Quadruple.”
Elsa shook her head and took a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling with the satisfied air of someone who had won an argument she hadn't even needed to fight. “You two must promise me never to enter active politics. Austria couldn’t handle it. And neither could I. Music, that is your realm now, Maria. You are very charming when you talk about your passion for music, or when you sing and play. And you two make a lovely couple when dancing, but I told you that already.”
Maria tilted her head, considering. “Well, Elsa, friendship takes many forms—some dance, some argue, some smuggle liquor into elegant parties. And some, apparently, create very memorable monikers.”
Max raised his glass in mock solemnity. “To friendship, in all its baffling, exasperating, and occasionally brilliant forms.”
Joan, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. “Well, it certainly has many forms, but I must say, this particular one is unlike any I’ve ever seen.”
Maria turned to her with a grin. “Oh, Joan, don’t pretend you’re an outsider. You’ve known them far longer than I have!”
Joan swirled her champagne thoughtfully. “Knowing someone and being prepared for them are two very different things, Maria. I’ve spent years observing Georg’s impeccable manners, and yet here we are, discussing smuggled liquor and duels over dinner.”
Georg gave a half-smile, shaking his head. “I do believe this is what happens when one gathers the wrong combination of people and gives them champagne.”
“Georg,” Elsa said smoothly, “you wound me. There is no wrong combination when I am involved.”
Maria laughed. “Then here’s to unexpected friendships. And to all the unexpected things that come with them.”
Elsa tapped the ash from her cigarette, smirking. “Ah, yes. This is going to be very fun.”
There was definitely some fun in it, although Maria especially sometimes found it all rather exhausting. Her life was now a careful balance of shopping, social appointments of any kind, her usual life as governess/new mother of seven lively children, meeting with Father Peter for their spiritual preparation to the wedding, learning about the estate with Georg, and spending some more private time with Georg, either alone or with their chaperones.
Elsa did stay for a while. That Saturday morning, they had continued their shopping, and Maria learned the real meaning of the word ‘embarrassment’ when Elsa, after sending Liesl away with a pretext as usual, suggested she get her lingerie either in Vienna or Munich.
“My dear, I am not blind. I see how you look at each other. That is precisely why I think you need the best there is. I would send you to Paris, but I don’t think we have the time. Besides, who would then console Georg and the children if we simply went to Paris for a few days? Now that I think of it, I am rather happy not to be affected by this thing called ‘romance’. It really complicates things!”
Even Maria had to laugh at that. She promised they would go to Munich together, and she promised she would visit her in Vienna before heading to Lower Austria to meet the Countess.
For the rest, she kept her promise to the children that they would have their own shopping, all accompanied by cake, and it worked: it gave way to some very amusing and tender moments.
Choosing what to wear was easy; the fitting was a little more complicated (only Liesl and Louisa were able to understand the simple request ‘stand still, please!’, and she wouldn’t have bet on Louisa, honestly.)
The boys had to be discouraged from wearing an imitation of their father’s full-dress uniform, and settled for a brand-new elegant Tracht, coordinated with those of their sisters.
Cake at Café Glockenspiel only brought some mild mocking of Kurt’s love for pastry, which was a success, given the numerous fights she had witnessed during the summer. Georg and she were able to subdue the disturbance rather easily. On the other hand, eating some Sacher and strudel brought up an important detail, in Kurt’s words:
“The wedding cake! Can we help you choose it?”
It was then necessary to explain (with a lot of patience!) that accommodating the preferences for seven children in a single cake was rather impossible, a task that required a lot of patience. In the end, they chose an Esterházy-Torte, and promised there would be other desserts, too.
It was actually nice to be alone with Georg and the children sometimes, as it soon would be.
Sundays were often her favourite day. The presence of the children meant more sport, more games, and more music than the other days, when homework and all the more essential tasks took precedence over their old schedule. Bobby and Frankie often passed by during the weekends too, so the children were happy to be surrounded by so many family members (with Bobby and Frankie less shy of participating in their activities than Max and Joan). They did miss Aunt Constance and their cousin Connie, but they were happy to see them when they would go visiting their grandmother as well as at the wedding.
Although her moments with Georg and estate matters did offer several occasions for good conversation or for some brief moment of tenderness, they tried to sneak away several times.
They absolutely missed being alone, to talk, to just hold hands or being in each other arms, to kiss passionately, and also to continue their progressive exploration of the physical side of their relationship—the most challenging of all, because it required absolute privacy.
The extensive garden, despite autumn advancing, was helpful, sometimes. The surrounding, the excuse of a short trip to walk or ride the bike; even a few trips to town for sudden important appointments were exploited to try to get rid of their chaperones for a while. (Maria developed a new appreciation for the Austro-Daimler in one of these instances.)
And so it was that a combination of Georg offering insights on the estates and on their joint tenure as master and mistress, and the couple wanting to just be together led to Georg’s best idea ever.
“Maria, why don’t I teach you to drive?”
She threw her arms around his neck and covered him in kisses. “Oh, darling, yes, yes! That sounds so exciting! And it will be so useful for me to drive, with our big family.”
Georg briefly had the image of her expecting his child, of them having more children to look after, and it gave him a mixture of tenderness and passion in his eyes that did not go undetected by Max, who had his own idea.
“Oh, wonderful idea, I agree. If you could just use the Austro-Daimler, because I really find its backseat more comfortable.”
The couple looked at him as if he were from another planet.
Max added, “Do you really think I would let you add ‘driving lessons’ to short trips and sudden errands? I understand you need some time together, and I have been giving you some leeway and distracting Joan. But if you think I am going to let you spend regularly time alone with a car at your disposal…”
Max didn’t budge, of course, and so Maria’s driving lessons became a nice moment with Georg but under the chaotic supervision of Max. It wasn’t that bad; in fact, their joint brands of humour led to hilarious moments, that were faithfully reported to Elsa, either over the phone or when she passed by to assist with some more shopping.
“Maria, I understand you really didn’t like Herr Markl, but mixing up brake and gas is too stupid a mistake to justify your almost driving him over,” observed sarcastically Georg.
Maria was bent over the wheel, laughing madly at the absurdity of it all. She had truly pushed the wrong pedal in a moment of insecurity about how to turn left correctly to go back to Aigen—and then completely forgotten to push down the clutch. Herr Markl, who was on the road, coming home from a meeting at Steinlechner, was almost run over.
Max had his own theory. “Georg, you assume she would want to justify her actions. She would proudly stand by her actions. You know that!”
Maria continued laughing, and Georg, brushing her back with tenderness, commented: “It is never going to be boring with you, right, darling?”
Still suffocating in her laughter, she shook her head.
“Georg, does this mean I will have to go to Munich by train? I had promised Elsa I would drive her in the Austro-Daimler!”
Georg reacted by faking an attack to her, screaming “Stay away from my car, you menace,” that obviously finished in a kiss and in Max’s outrage.
Her trip to Munich with Elsa and Joan felt like a breath of fresh air—part shopping expedition, part girl’s day out, part reprieve from the whirlwind her life had become. It began, naturally, with Elsa’s relentless teasing about Maria’s still-ongoing driving lessons.
“I know, I know,” Maria sighed, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “I promised I’d drive you, Elsa, but I’m still not reliable enough—according to Max, that is. And Georg… well, Georg does worry. Mostly about the car, I think.”
Elsa waved her hand, unimpressed. “My dear Maria, from his expression this morning, I’d say he’s more worried about you being 130 kilometres away from him for a whole day. I honestly expected him to volunteer as chauffeur just for an excuse to tag along. A 39-year-old decorated war hero, and yet he looked ready to sulk like one of his children. Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t feel the same—those glances of yours were not subtle.”
Joan offered Maria a lifeline. “Be fair, Elsa. Between social calls, the estate, the children, they barely have time to breathe. Of course they miss each other.”
“Oh yes,” Elsa intoned, eyes skyward, “those emotionally taxing walks in the woods. Positively exhausting.”
Maria only grinned, unfazed. “Well, at least we’ll have time to hunt for jazz records. I think this is the first time I’ve actually influenced you, Elsa.”
Elsa sniffed. “I can’t have our events stuck in one musical era forever. Even if Joan disapproves of syncopation. As for fashion influence, I’ll have you know you were practically a blank canvas. All it took was the realization that a well-dressed woman can command the respect of children and husbands alike.” She paused, then added with uncharacteristic warmth: “And I think you’ll grow into being a Baroness quite beautifully. There’s so much you can do with the title—and with your sense of purpose. Education, music… imagine the possibilities.”
Their shopping day was a success. Maria found the rest of her trousseau, including her long-dreaded lingerie selections, along with practical hiking gear, even trousers. They hunted down new jazz records—some just arrived from the States—and admired a few avant-garde designs in passing. Elsa grumbled about not staying the night.
“I swear I found at least two cafés that offer music and cake,” she announced, “and are—at least for now—certified free of those idiot Brownshirts.”
Maria raised an eyebrow. “I thought they were still licking their wounds from the Putsch?”
Elsa smirked. “Oh, they are. But that doesn’t stop them from parading about like they own the place. Red-faced and trying to look important. Frankly, the only danger they pose right now is to a woman’s sense of aesthetic.”
Joan sighed. “And to basic civility.”
Maria would finish the rest of her shopping in Vienna, alone, before heading on to Lower Austria to meet her family for the weekend. But this outing, noisy and light-hearted as it was, left her with something rarer: a quiet sense of solidarity, of being surrounded by women who saw her, teased her, and—perhaps without saying it—were starting to root for her.
Maria would then buy the rest of what she needed in Vienna, where she would go alone first, only to continue for Lower Austria and meet the rest of her family during the weekend.
The couple’s spiritual preparation focused mostly on the importance of common prayer, as a couple and as a family, on the teachings of the Gospel, on the duties of a husband and a wife according to the Church.
Maria found it deeply romantic—almost surreal—that Georg would say he was ready to die for her, as well as for the children. It was the kind of thing she thought only existed in Liesl’s novels. It was a little more surprising for Georg and Father Peter to hear Maria say that she, too, would be ready to die for Georg or the children.
Another topic that was discussed was what the Mother Abbess had already told Maria. That life would not be like their honeymoon; that they would face challenges of all kind, and that they would have to redefine their love to adapt to new circumstances. That sometimes choosing to love each other, when their love was not so fresh anymore, would be very hard.
They talked a lot about it, in the following days, walking alone, hand in hand.
“It sounds so incredible. We do have so much in common, we are very open with each other, and we adore just being together,” observed Georg.
Maria had the same thought. “Maybe the problems will come from the outside, and we will have to redefine how to face them, together?”
Georg seemed to be lost in his thoughts for a while, then came back to the topic. “You know, Agathe and I did face dire times together, but it never changed much in how we loved each other. I hope I am not making you feel uneasy, darling, if I talk about it.”
“Not at all. I know you loved her; I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
“Well, being separated by the war was dire and difficult, but the entire country was at war, and so we tried to be brave and hoped to be luckier than Werner and Constance. I would not say it changed our relationship. The aftermath of the war was another difficult time, with the food scarcity… but the only thing I remember was that sometimes we were tired by the constant search for a solution. That was it.”
“Maybe exhaustion will be our greatest challenge. Neither of us is used to sitting still or living passively”
“It might be. But, you see, any time I think of you I have marvellous memories of you already that make me smile. We still have so many memories to make together. I would always choose to love you just by remembering one of those moments.” He brushed her hand while talking.
Maria’s heart felt like exploding. She stopped to look at him “Oh, Georg… I do too have many marvellous memories already. I will always choose to love you, too. And I am so thrilled about our future that I would face anything just to be able to live a future with you.”
He took her in his arms with tenderness, accompanying her head to rest on his shoulder.
“You know what is one thing I am looking forward? Seeing you with my child. Carrying it, or having it in your arms.” He kissed her temple. “It’s ironic,” he murmured, “that we never even talked about it.”
Maria kissed his shoulder. “I simply assumed… considering the nature of our relationship… children would simply most likely come, depending on the Lord’s plans for us.” She lifted her head to look him in the eyes. “And you truly look forward to having children with me?”
“Do you?”
“Now that I think of it… I loved your children immediately, and I love them; having children born of our love must be incredible. I just hope the older ones will not feel neglected.”
“Maria, you are able to love eight von Trapps already; you will be able to love eight more.”
“EIGHT MORE? GEORG!” and they laughed at Maria’s scream, freely, unreservedly, with their whole body and soul.
“Maria, Maria, I am rather sure we will enjoy a rather passionate marriage. The Lord, as you say, will provide.” He had his usual glint in his eyes, but also his mix of tenderness and passion.
Obviously, just as they had started kissing, Max’s voice resounded in the garden, crisp with the first autumn air.
“OH, DEAR, I WONDER IF WE WILL EVER FIND TWO MORE PLAYERS FOR HIDE AND SEEK!”
Max emerged from the trees, followed by Bobby and Frankie who were exchanging banknotes as usual.
“This time you lose, Bobby. That kiss was almost tasteful!”
“I’ll have you know, that kiss didn’t look chaste, Frankie!”
Notes:
a) Max's arrival is inspired by a scene from the 1996 Italian comedy "Il ciclone".
b) Children's Acceptance of the Engagement: The children are portrayed as being 100% happy with the engagement for several reasons:
- Strong Bond with Maria: Maria and the children formed a deep bond early in the story (Chapters 2 and 3), described as the "second love story" of the narrative. This bond was built on mutual affection and Maria's respect for their memories of their mother, Agathe. (The first love story is the love and bond among the siblings; the third is Georg and Maria; then come the children's individual love stories.)
- Processing Agathe's Death: The children, and even the Whitehead family, have processed and accepted the death of their mother, Agathe, long ago. This is reinforced by the "photos and album" subplot from the previous chapters.
- Established Family Unit: The Trapp family has been living as a unified family for some time, and the children are accustomed to their "new family structure."
- Further Development: The upcoming chapter will explore more details about Maria's relationship with the children.
Chapter 12: The past, the present, and the future
Summary:
The wedding is approaching, and there is still much to do, especially since Maria will spend the last week before the ceremony at the Abbey for spiritual preparation: talking to the children; going to Vienna and visit Elsa for some shopping and baroness bonding; meeting the children’s grandmother.
The children are the usual loving and lovable menaces, with some of them entering adolescence in their own way; Elsa reveals to her new friend some of her societal weapons, but also surprises Maria in a way that will not go unnoticed, especially not by Max.
Agathe’s mother is another surprise: Maria learns more about Georg and Agathe’s story, and reflects on pain and love. And Georg’s sister-in-law Constance confirms what Maria has long suspected about the Trapps.
But there is also the need for the couple to learn more of each other, which gives us a few funny, tender and passionate moments.
Notes:
If you want to keep the fic between G and M, stop reading at **EE**. There begins a tasteful E/M part (very indirect and more poetic than anything else, but the situations described are rather E-ish).
The rest of the chapter is T/M.
Mild warning: indirect mention of distressing situations; discussion of grief.
Chapter Text
As Georg and Maria’s great day approached, Maria’s calendar reminded her of a few tasks she secretly dreaded.
The first: talking to the children, to check on how they were really feeling, and to explain what would change after the wedding.
The second: going to Vienna and staying at Elsa’s townhouse in the First District, for the last of her shopping and some bonding between baronesses.
Then the visit to Mrs Whitehead—the children’s grandmother, née Agathe Breunner, better known as the Countess.
She was sitting on a wooden bank with Georg near Castle Aigen, watching the first leaves fall in the golden afternoon sun, when she confided in him. Again.
“I am not sure which task will be more difficult. I am so worried about the children changing their mind about us marrying, then I am so worried at spending almost two days in the First District, and… well, visiting the Auerspergs and the children’s grandmother.”
“The children might be spirited, stubborn even, but they’ve always adjusted in the end—because deep down, they just want to be loved, and that is not going to change. Elsa is a nice person to spend social time with, as long as you are not her enemy. And I thought all my in-laws had already talked to you about the family: they are all warm, nice people who love the children and are happy to welcome you. The Countess is no exception: she lived with the children for so long, and I am sure she misses them very much. She apparently told everyone that you were sent by Agathe to look over the children, so you already have that in common.”
“I still cannot help being nervous. It is almost like training for our wedding day!” She smirked nervously.
“You are going to be nervous? I am going to be nervous. I hope I still fit in my full-dress uniform!”
“I could always make you a dress out of old curtains, darling.”
“You are lucky I’d marry you in a potato sack, Maria or I would be very…uhmph…” Georg was silenced by Maria’s lips.
They stayed on that bank for a while, just talking. Georg was suddenly curious about one thing.
“You never talk much about your family, apart from your love for your parents, and the vague mention of you and your guardian not seeing eye to eye, to the point of you leaving his house at fifteen to live off a scholarship and summer jobs.”
Maria was suddenly very silent and serious. Then she added, “Well, there was also some working-class solidarity in there. But I really despise my uncle, so I prefer not to talk about him.”
Georg studied her intently, trying to understand what could have been the problem, and suddenly he got all kinds of scenarios in his head. “Maria, was it politics?”
“No, actually he was the one who pushed me into joining the Social Democrats.” Maria noticed Georg’s dark expression, and she decided to come out with it, to avoid him painting direr scenarios than the real ones. “He simply found every day a new reason to criticise me, and way too often a reason to discipline me, even if I had done nothing wrong. There was something wrong with him for sure, though.” She inhaled and exhaled heavily. “He beat me very often, and made me skip meals; in the end, I decided to act out for real… because, after all, I was going to be punished anyway. When I was fifteen, on the other hand, I decided that I had enough of it, so I made my plans for my escape, and… well, I struck back when he hit me.”
Maria had never seen him like this—his face a terrifying mask of rage.
“Tell me the bastard’s name.” Georg’s voice was low and dark, and laced with danger.
“Georg, what do you want to do? Beat him, and have me wait out your sentence before we can marry?”
“They should catch me, first.”
“Georg, this is not going to change anything. It happened; I survived. I now know the love of seven endearing children and of a wonderful man.”
“A man who would kill for you.” Maria knew instinctively that it was all very wrong; and yet, she found that having a man willing to protect her like that was inebriating. He had said he would die for her, but he was ready to kill for her, too.
I served out of love, she remembered him saying at the ball. He was a liberal man in many ways, but he would be ready to kill to protect his family and his country. It should not have been a surprise.
Maria forced herself not to give in to this kind of darkness in him. “Georg, I know, my love. I know you would protect us all at any cost. But not over this. My revenge is my life with you and the children, far away from that man and the ugly memories of that time. There is nothing I want more than our life to begin, and I will not have you risk it. I will remember your words, and cherish your passionate nature forever, but that is where this discussion ends.”
Her words seemed to be able to calm him a little bit. He was still breathing heavily, chest heaving, eyes darkened, but he was looking into her eyes again.
He grabbed her waist possessively. “Come. I need you to think forever of what my hands can do to you, and to erase from your memory the rest.”
To that kind of darkness, Maria did not say no.
Another face of love, another conversation. One evening, Maria gathered the children in Liesl’s sitting room, as it was tradition, to talk to them about the wedding, and their new life.
She went straight to the point. “So, how do you feel about the wedding? There is not much time left now. I wanted to be sure you don’t feel neglected. Our diorama is not finished yet, and it’s been almost a month!”
Kurt was first. “I still think apple strudel was the better wedding cake!”
Louisa chimed in. “Apple strudel is not a cake, you Trottel!”
Maria had to intervene. “Louisa, please. And Kurt—don't worry. I told Resi to keep her best apples for you. Strudel is guaranteed. Anything else? Satisfied with your new Trachten?”
The children expressed their approval.
Gretl asked, “Can we call you Mother as soon as the Mass is over?”
Friedrich explained, patiently, “Actually, right after they say their vows—so by the time we recite Credo in unum Deum, it’s official.”
Maria didn’t have the courage to tell him that, by law, she would become their mother upon signing at the registry office on Saturday already, not after the religious ceremony on Sunday.
Gretl smiled with one of her endearing but mischievous smiles, and Maria could not resist: she picked her up and kissed her.
“So, no one is disappointed that we have been all so very busy?”
“Liesl explained that it is all to prepare the wedding. And we always have company, now! We like it!”
Maria nodded at Liesl. That girl was a saint: so loving, so patient.
Maria then touched another topic. “You know that your father and I will be away for a little bit, on our honeymoon trip? I promise you that, when we will be back, we will never be parted again. But we need a few days just for us, before we come back and start taking care of you and the estate full time. I ask you all to be patient, and remember we will bring you gifts.”
As she noticed Kurt opening his mouth again, with a knowing smile on his face, she cut him off. “No jokes about us kissing, Kurt. I know that smile. Just remember: we control the strudel.”
The children laughed.
Brigitta tried to speak for all of her siblings. “Of course, we will all miss you, and it is a little bit sad that you will leave during the reception, but it is true that we are going to be together every single day after you come back. Besides, Uncle Max has promised to entertain us while you are away! Uncle Bobby and Frankie will also stay for a little bit, while Aunt Joan will stay until you are back.”
The children added their own bits, but they were basically all in agreement. Maria, worried they might try to sound braver than they are, added: “But we will greet you, hug and kiss you all one by one before leaving.”
Another topic. “In case it wasn’t obvious... You’ll still keep your mother’s pictures exactly where they are. In this family, we will always remember her. That won’t change just because I’m becoming your mother too. Even your father still has her picture on his desk, next to all his dearest people’s photographs, and he has my full support.”
Once again, the children expressed their agreement. They had never feared Maria asking them to remove Agathe’s picture, but hearing it was more reassuring.
Then, the last issue. “You know I love you all as I do your father. That will never change. There will be an important change, though: I will be his wife, and I will vow to love, honour, and obey him. This means I cannot keep secrets from him. If he asks me to reveal something that one of you might have told me, I will have to tell him. We will both strive to be the best parents you could possibly have, of course. I may not be your secret-keeper the way I used to be—but I’ll always be on your side.”
Martha observed, “Well, we don’t need to play tricks or disobey anymore.”
Louisa added, “And you and Father have been agreeing on so many things since the summer. I suppose we were all aware that any disobedience would be equally scolded by both of you, because that’s what has been happening for a few months already.”
As she might have imagined, the more silent ones on this matter were Liesl and Friedrich. She knew very well what was troubling Liesl, but she now wondered if Friedrich had suddenly done something like discovering Steinlechner’s beer (Why was there a Gasthaus near a boys' school, anyway? What did they expect would happen?).
Therefore, after the usual hugs and kisses with the kids, and the reassurance that they could come to her any time and tell her how they were feeling, she decided to have a talk with them.
Liesl first. “Liesl, how are things with your young postman going? Still walking and kissing?”
“Oh, well, thanks to the wedding, I have been seeing him often in our neighbourhood. You know, all that post and deliveries…” Her beautiful face had lit up, but then saddened. “But… you will have to tell Father, won’t you?”
“I will not march up to him and tell him you are meeting and kissing a charming postman.” I am not completely mad. “But if he asked me where you were, and I knew you were in the garden with him… things like that, I would have to tell him. I am rather sure that, as long as you are not doing one of the things I told you not to do, like neglecting school or letting him force you to do something you do not want, there will be no problems.”
Maria wasn’t exactly sure of that: she could see Georg threaten a boy interested in one of his daughters, but she knew he could be reasoned with (or stopped in other ways. Power of the Holy Matrimony: what Liesl was forbidden from doing was one of marriage’s main weapons.)
“I understand. Really, I am in love myself, and I understand. Let’s just hope Father listens to you!”
That was everyone’s hope.
Now it was Friedrich’s turn. That was more complicated; Friedrich was a dear boy, but he was a little more reserved, sometimes.
“Friedrich, how do you really feel about my marrying your Father? I’d prefer to hear the truth than have you suffer in silence.”
“I am happy, Fräulein Maria. I did volunteer to accompany you to the altar, remember?”
“So, why that face when I announced that I would not be able to protect you as I used to do as a governess?”
Friedrich looked rather… lost for words, and embarrassed. Maria decided to try and see whether her intuition had been the right one.
“Did you drink beer? Is that your secret?”
“Oh, no, not beer.”
“Some of your father’s brandy?”
“No, no, nothing to do with drinking!”
“Friedrich, out with it. These things will not get your father mad at you. We will not approve of you doing them, but pretty much every one of us has been your age and done something like that.”
“Well… I stole one of Uncle Max’s cigars, and I also tried Father’s old pipe. He still has it, a memory from his Naval Academy days, but Mamá asked him to quit smoking when they married. I think he might have smoked a little during the war, from what he told us, but that was it.”
“Smoking? Oh, dear, Friedrich. That is a nasty habit. Honestly? I’d rather you drank.”
Sadly for Maria, Friedrich was a clever boy. “This means you drank at my age, am I right?” He smirked mischievously.
“How dare you…” she said with mock outrage, laughing. “Actually, I was fifteen, not fourteen. And I still do not approve of it. Anyway, why on earth did you want to smoke?”
“Oh, it was a dare with Kurt. He said I was still a boy like him, and I should quit behaving as if I were more mature, and I wanted to show him.”
Maria let out a crystalline laugh. “Oh, Friedrich. Don’t worry, you will be a man soon, and you will have a wonderful father to guide you in becoming one. And now you have me, too. But please, keep away from smoke, and alcohol. And enjoy being a fourteen-year-old boy who still loves my hugs and kisses. Well, to be honest, I intend to keep hugging and kissing you for a very long time. Affectionate gestures don’t expire just because you grow up, and you know I do love you all very much.”
Friedrich blushed, but then took up Maria’s offer of a hug and kiss.
As she stepped out into the hallway, she could still hear the children’s laughter echoing behind her. Her heart felt full—full of joy, of nerves, of fierce, aching love. It was happening. It was all happening.
Returning to Vienna in first class, already dressed like a Baroness, to visit another Baroness: if someone had told her it would happen, the day she had left for Nonnberg, she would have branded that someone as insane.
Spending two nights away from Georg and the children was novel, and she was reminded of Elsa’s mocking when she recalled how sad everyone was upon her departure. But then, they would meet again to go to Lower Austria soon.
An elegant chauffeur was waiting for her at the Western Station, another novelty for her. She was now entering the First District as an invited guest, and it would not be the last time, either. Not that she and Georg wanted to live a life like that of Elsa and Max, but they would have to make an appearance, now and then. Friendships and connections were useful—Max and Elsa were right on this; soon, the older children would be entering society themselves, and they couldn’t afford to isolate themselves in their idyll in the province.
Speaking of isolation, Elsa’s voice resounded crystal clear as she was in the midst of her thoughts, as usual. The Baroness was already dressed to the nines, and chirped on her threshold “Maria! The train was on time, I believe! Good, good, I am looking forward to showing you all of my favourite shops!”
As she entered the townhouse, she was ushered to a sitting room, where—surprise!— champagne was waiting for them. At eleven in the morning.
And yet Elsa seemed unfazed. “Dear, here is to our two days as ‘stunning blondes’, as Max would say, in the capital! You will love what I have planned out for you!”
Maria did love the champagne, a rather more rosé-coloured one. She thought it would make for an interesting conversation starter.
“This champagne is more rosé. Is that a different type?”
And thus, Elsa realised she had completely neglected one topic with her new protégée: wines, sparkling wines, and champagnes.
“Oh, dear… this is a rosé Austrian sparkling wine from the Wachau, from one of my dear departed husband’s estates—well, mine now. Thank you, Republic, for letting me inherit it all! See? You are influencing me already!”
Maria had a strong suspicion that her two days would be nothing like a relaxed meeting of two ladies getting to know each other.
“Anyway, back to our drinks: champagne will come later. I feel like we will have to work on your knowledge of wines. Georg does have a very good cellar, but he sometimes sticks to those products he likes, and forgets to scout for new opportunities. You, as his wife, must be ready to guide him in discovering new wines to be able to amaze your guests!”
No, that didn’t sound like what she had envisioned.
“Dear, I remember you appreciating Georg’s champagne. What else do you like?”
“Well, I prefer red over white, except for… everything sparkling? And I am rather wary of beer now. A few bad memories. I do like my Schnaps…”
“Stop, stop, stop. So, you preferring wine over beer is an auspicious beginning. The word ‘Schnaps’ is now to be one of your and Georg’s secrets, along with your radical attitude. It’s brandy or cognac from now on, my dear. And we do have to talk about all of those wines…”
Maria and Elsa started their shopping adventure after sampling a little bit of reds and whites that Elsa had open that day. Not enough to be drunk, but definitely enough to make their experience slightly different.
Elsa was very thorough, and they managed to visit almost all of her favourite shops and boutiques by the time they were closing. New lingerie was bought (“You will let me know if Munich or Vienna is best. Not too much in detail, of course”), as well as more dresses and accessories. All sprinkled with Elsa’s lectures about wines, and bubbles, and combinations, and a few darts at “idiots using wine as an excuse to argue about politics”.
They headed home to spend the evening in a cozy manner, where ‘cozy manner’ meant ‘with a few other high-society women that Elsa esteemed’, and the promised champagne.
“Oh, so you are the future Baroness von Trapp! We were all wondering when we would meet you! Elsa told me you were a hidden gem, and that she was the one to uncover you!”
Maria played along, but she was very amused.
“Yes, we heard about the ball! That she was there to see if she and Georg could be compatible, but then she saw you with the children, she understood you were the right woman for him, and she gave you her ball dress to be able to participate! That is almost like a fairytale! I think most single women must have hoped to marry that man.” Then, with a gesture of complicity, “You must have noticed that your man is…”
“YES, thank you, Ulli, she has noticed indeed, rest assured.”
Maria had to press her lips together. Presenting their wedding as Elsa’s exploit was genius, she had to admit. And also, hilarious.
The conversation mostly touched the topics of fashion (obviously), music, wine, and also driving.
“Oh, the Captain is teaching you to drive? It is very kind of you. My husband would never take the trouble. And he would never trust me.”
“I did almost kill a local politician while making a turn, but Georg is very patient, and I am almost ready to drive by myself. Although I will miss having Max’s—Herr Detweiler—commentary in my ear the first time I do drive by myself. He is always in the back seat, chaperoning.”
Elsa nodded her approval to Maria.
“Ulli, can you imagine Herr Detweiler as a chaperone?”
“Maria, dear, you do know that he was a rake?” said the one called something like Adelgunde.
“Oh, he admitted to it, yes. But he is a surprisingly good chaperone, to be honest.”
Elsa revived the exchange a little. “Maria is still a little shy about her skills, but she would like you to know that she is available for secret revenge missions. Think you might want to get rid of that horrible Katharina-something who has been spreading rumours about your husband? Or maybe get rid of the husband too? Just ask Maria to practice her driving in the right corner of the country!”
The two ladies giggled; their flutes held in mid-air. So, Maria went all in.
“Feel free to ask anytime. I am always available for a bit of mixing up the pedals purposefully by mistake!”
The most undignified laughter heralded the serving of yet another bottle of champagne.
Elsa’s moments aside, it was a little bit boring, but she imagined that she would have to get used to less lively conversations until either she learned whom to trust and whom not to, or Elsa took over in her own acceptable way.
The following day, Maria woke up with a headache, and thought she would be able to take it easy.
She was not.
Elsa had planned to show her the rest of her boutiques and shops; then brought her to visit other society ladies, where the usual conversation ensued; then, when she thought she might be able to rest before her journey to meet the Auerspergs and the Countess… Elsa brought her to a restaurant that played not the usual Viennese fare but jazz!
“I figured we will have all the time to patronise all possible typical Viennese establishments. But today I am with a young woman in Vienna, so why not patronise an establishment catering to people your age, and be the most beautiful and rich at the tables, enjoying the music, the food, and the wines?”
And that’s how Maria discovered that Elsa did envy her a little bit, for being free to carve her own role in society and being able to be less than perfect.
“This is who I am, same as Max. Even if I bring jazz to high society, I have to do it the proper way. I cannot just barge in like you usually do. Don’t misunderstand me: I love my life, and I wouldn’t change it for the world, but sometimes I would like to be able to do something a little less…proper!”
Which, for that evening, consisted of scandalously dancing after dinner with Maria (Maria didn’t want to do something that Georg would not like; Elsa did not want to have embarrassing conversations with hot-blooded young men) and getting very, very drunk (Maria, tempered by Tyrol and by a more robust appetite, was only ‘regularly’ drunk).
She left Elsa with a little bit of worry, but her butler and maid assured her that they got everything under control. So, after her first vile hair of the dog, and an Aspirin for good measure, she departed to meet the family near Laxenburg, hoping to look not too bad in order to avoid questioning.
Maria was truly happy to see Georg and the children again. However, she couldn’t help thinking that postponing the reunion by an hour—giving her time for a quiet walk in the fresh air near the castle— would have made it easier.
Elsa’s chauffeur had looked at her in silence, understanding in his gaze.
When the three cars from Salzburg finally arrived, Maria gathered her strength and forced herself to appear as lively and energetic as ever. She brushed off comments with a breezy, “Elsa and I did make the most of our days and evenings, and I am still not quite rested.”
That worked fabulously for the children.
Not so much for the gentlemen—or Joan.
So, when Maria later asked to stop just outside Gloggnitz and went to sit by the riverbank of the Schwarza, she wasn’t surprised to see the gentlemen approach her. Some were grinning. One of them— her one—looked very, very worried. The children, she noticed, had been purposefully distracted by Joan, who was no fool. She knew the difference between her position and Elsa’s—and could easily guess what might have gone on.
As always, Max was the one to find the right tone.
“So,” he began, half-sitting on a boulder, “made the most of your days and evenings, did you? How much are we talking about? Bottles or glasses, it’s the same to me.”
“We were at a restaurant with live music,” Maria replied with a shrug. “I honestly lost count. We kept buying champagne. I think we ran them dry. It’s the sort of place that caters to young jazz enthusiasts, not high society.”
Georg flinched. “You and Elsa were in a place like that? Drinking? Alone?”
Maria, calm and a little smug, answered, “Darling, I knew you’d react like that. That’s why Elsa and I only danced with each other. Besides, she said something about not wanting third-rate flirting from young men.”
Georg looked conflicted. “It’s… very sweet of you to think of my feelings, but Maria, please be careful. Two beautiful women, alone, in an unfamiliar place, spending money and getting drunk? What on earth was Elsa thinking?”
The brothers burst into laughter, and Max added through a grin, “That does surprise me, actually. Except for the part about the young men. That sounds just like her.”
Maria jumped in. “She said she wanted to experience a place where people were more my age. And to be a little less proper than usual.”
Max blinked. Then grinned wider. “Ah. So you’ve been rubbing off on her. Excellent. I will never let her forget this.”
Georg sat beside Maria on the grass, worry still shadowing his face.
“How do you feel? Would you like to walk a little?”
“I think you should dunk me in the Schwarza,” she said with a half-smile that looked more like a grimace. “But I’m feeling a bit better already. It’s just... the car, the confined space. And the children screaming.”
Georg chuckled, finally relaxing a little. “Come on, we’ll walk a bit. You can splash some water on your face. I think it’s already too cold for a bath,” he added with a mischievous twinkle.
Then, more softly, “But really, Maria. Be careful. Especially when I’m not there.”
She tilted her head at him. “I thought you liked me because I get into trouble.”
“Not this kind of trouble, darling.”
After a game of hide-and-seek and a short car trip, Maria found herself face-to-face with almost her entire new family—and with the Countess.
Distant relations on the children’s grandmother’s side, the Auerspergs were greeted with warm formality—even by the children.
On the other hand, the children exhibited themselves in one of the hugs and kisses that she had proudly reinstated and fostered when it came to their Gromi, and to whom she supposed were Aunt Constance and their cousin Connie. Constance also addressed Georg, telling him, “I am glad to see you looking and acting like yourself again.”
Then came the voice of the Countess, warm but unmistakably commanding. “Come here, dear. Let me look at you.”
Maria hesitated.
‘Of course, I mean you! You’re the only stranger here,’ the Countess said lightly, eyes twinkling. ‘And the children were right: you are beautiful—and sweet!
Maria blushed, as usual. Why would the children add ‘beautiful’? Liesl’s novels again? Or was the noblewoman just being kind?
She continued. “They must have lied when they said you were lively. You haven’t said a word!”
“Oh… heavens, forgive me! I lose myself in my thoughts sometimes. A pleasure to meet you…” and Maria noticed she had forgotten to ask Georg or Elsa how to address her!
Frau Whitehead? Mrs Whitehead?
Countess?
She tried that one. “…Countess.”
“Oh, dear, the children and Georg call me Gromi. Call me Gromi too. Now come, let me introduce you to the rest of the family!”
Georg was right: despite her English being almost non-existent, Maria and Constance hit it off just right.
Constance explained, “Georg was always very protective of me and Connie, as were the Whiteheads. I was so sad I could not help him when he went through what I went through, and in a more unexpected manner. It’s good to see him happy again.”
Maria felt a little guilty. Constance had lost her husband, a love match, and never found happiness again. She didn’t even have a grave to cry on: poor Werner had fallen in Galicia and was buried who knows where. But she seemed to be quite content right now.
Maria decided to risk asking. “Was Georg just teasing me, or is it true that you were a governess too when you met your husband?”
Constance laughed openly, and then said, “It is the truth. You know, the von Trapps are all secretly rebels,” and she said that in English instead of German. “You will see when you meet Hede, too. But what is this about you having to learn English? Come, and I’ll start teaching you. You can always correct my German! I still make mistakes!”
Her daughter Constanze was about Louisa’s age, and shared what she called “the Trapp look.” She could have easily passed for another sibling. After all, her father did look a lot like Georg!
She had a fleeting thought that, most likely, the children she would birth would look like her beloved Georg, too.
Maria was happy to see the children playing all together, and took to Connie immediately, who was another affectionate and lively child (probably another von Trapp trait). She was also amused at seeing Friedrich and Kurt being almost gallant towards their cousin, instead of their usual selves: adorable, but sometimes very trying for everyone.
There was now only one conversation left, after her discussions with every single Whitehead sibling. And, as she had suspected, she was summoned for a proper English tea with Gromi in her sitting room.
It was easy to understand why she was still called “Countess”. She did command respect, although she sounded less controlled than Elsa when talking, a little more unfiltered.
“Come in, dear. I thought I would love to get to know you. My children and grandchildren have already told me all about you. Georg, too, but as you might imagine, he is slightly more reserved.”
“Thank you, Gromi. It was very kind of you to invite me.”
“My dear, showing my approval of the match is essential for you to move in society without any issue, and I am glad to give it. As soon as I heard that my grandchildren loved you, you had my approval of your person. I understand you come from a different background, yet you have achieved remarkable things in your studies and profession.”
She definitely could not deny it was the truth, and she most likely could not judge a woman from literally another era for talking like she must have been used to.
“Yes, that is right. I studied in Vienna, although I am originally from Tyrol.”
“Do you miss the mountains of Tyrol? Although we do have very beautiful corners here as well, between Lower Austria and Styria. Feel free to explore next time you visit.”
Maria relaxed a little bit. If they were already talking about mountains…
“And, from what I have heard and seen, you are nothing like my daughter, except for the way you love the children and their father.”
Maria almost fainted, her blush burning her cheeks. What could she possibly reply to that?
“My dear, I am sorry you took that as criticism. It was just a statement. It should be a merry thought for you; that Georg should love you for who you are and not because you are an imitation of the one he has lost.”
Bold. Unfiltered. But… honest. And somehow, she found herself appreciating it.
She continued. “You see, my daughter was raised to be a poised woman from my class. She fell in love with Georg because she recognised his good heart and his romantic charm—not to mention, his looks. But I wasn’t happy, at first, to have her marry a Navy officer. I remember I sent Max Detweiler and my sons off to gather information about him, and I only let him near her as they brought me proof that he was a good-hearted man, and an honest one. We already knew he was intelligent and career-driven, given how our family had met him, but I did not judge that enough for my dear daughter.
So, I relented, and accepted that my dear Agathe would most likely marry that officer. And marry they did. I still remember how I ordered Max and my sons to chaperone them all the time…”
Maria cut in, “That… sounds familiar! I mean, in my case it was Elsa von Schräder…”
“Oh, how is she? You were visiting her, if I recall correctly.”
“I think… she is fine.” It was the afternoon, already. She should feel better by now…
“Anyway, back to your Georg. I hope you don’t find me too overbearing, but I am told you don’t have a mother to guide you. I lost a daughter; so, I thought I would try to give you some advice. Think of me as a mother who wants to help a young woman in this world. And it would also let me talk about Agathe with someone who is neither tired nor fearful of hearing about it.” Her eyes betrayed her sadness in admitting how she still missed her daughter.
Maria was actually moved by the feeling in the noblewoman’s voice. She must have been carrying many thoughts in her head for so many years. Her daughter, her grandchildren, her son-in-law almost collapsing under the weight of all that had happened…
“Georg is a good man, as I said, and my daughter and he were truly happy, I know it. But… They married young. They had Elisabeth soon after married. The war started when they had only been married 5 years: there might have been the romance of being the hero and his lady, and I am sure they did think of themselves like that at some point, but I remember Agathe during those years. She was staying with me at the Erlhof, in Zell am See, you know. She never once complained, she never said a word, but I could see her suffering. I could see her missing him terribly, I could see her fearing to end up like Constance, just with more children. Then Georg came back from war, and they were suddenly back to their honeymoon phase from before the war. Then it was over, tragically so.
It is good that you are different, Maria. My wish is for you to be as happy as my daughter was, but for longer. And for that to happen, you need to be able to speak up or to act when it’s time.”
Maria was suddenly brought back to her discussion with Georg following their meeting with Father Peter.
So, according to Agathe’s mother, they never had the opportunity to experience the real difficulties, stuck as they were in a sort of honeymoon. That was a very insightful judgement from someone who had watched them closely. And Agathe’s calmer nature might have become a problem later? Maybe, maybe not: her own honesty and directness could bring as much trouble as avoiding talking about problems, after all.
Maria knew it was time for her to react, lest Gromi comment again on her silence. “I… thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. I am particularly moved by the fact that you chose to give me the kind of advice a mother could give to her daughter, and I think it was very good advice. Our spiritual director did say something that seems to reflect what you just told me. And you can talk about Agathe as much as you want; I have done so with the children so many times, when they needed someone who would do it.”
“I thank you for listening, and for appreciating my words. Other women would not have even wanted to hear her name mentioned. Now, about your wedding: here is where I have to apologise. I will send my children in my stead, but I will not be attending. I am not as young as I used to be, so the journey would already be a problem. And I prefer to cherish my memory of Agathe in her wedding dress as my only memory. It would be too painful otherwise.”
It dawned on her: Georg had found the strength—or the luck—to fall in love again. But Gromi hadn't just lost a husband. She had lost a child. And no one, not even Maria, could ever be a substitute for that.
Yet another powerful teaching to her, who was embarking on a journey that would see her mother to seven, and probably soon to more. Losing a child must be devastating.
“I understand. The idea that I might have to bury one of the children, if anything happened… it would destroy me.”
“My dear, I wish you all a long a happy life. Don’t waste your time imagining dire scenarios that might never come to pass. If something truly happens, you will have enough grief to last you for a lifetime.”
Maria nodded.
“Anyway, I will visit you and the children at least once, when my sons can bring me. And I hope to see you often here, all of you! We need more joy, not these sad conversations! Now, tell me what you think of the children…”
And with that, Maria’s most dreaded conversation ended, leaving space to what a mother could discuss with her children’s grandmother, and to a day of getting to know the rest of the family, of trying to say new sentences in English and Italian.
When they made their long way back to Salzburg (with Georg letting her drive for a while in a rather straight and easy passage), Maria noticed it was less than two weeks to the wedding.
As they drove back, Maria sorted through her thoughts. She would share Gromi’s grief, her kindness, her wishes for their happiness. But neither her judgment of Georg, nor her quiet revelations about the past. Some truths were meant only for those who carried them.
It would have to be her own secret weapon, to build that wisdom that Georg must have definitely gained in his previous marriage.
The week that followed blurred into a whirl of wedding preparations, fittings, and joyful chaos. Elsa announced her return with a surprising note of cheerfulness, promising to arrive just in time. Between packing, paperwork, and the children’s excited chatter, Maria scarcely had a moment to herself.
Until, one quiet evening, just a week before the wedding, Georg knocked on her door, boldly challenging the chaperones’ regime.
Her dear fiancé had slipped her a note that afternoon, announcing his intention to visit on her last night at the villa as an unmarried woman—to sit with her by the fireplace and bid her goodnight himself. How endearingly daring he was!
Still, she had changed into her nightgown and robe, doubting that Georg would care much whether she was still dressed for dinner or not. And when she opened the door, she was rewarded with the sight of him in the same attire—pyjamas and robe.
It spoke of Gemütlichkeit, of an intimate and tranquil kind of coziness.
It also spoke of that Trapp rebel streak—that he would dare tiptoe out of his room and risk getting caught, that they would both risk being overheard and, most likely, humiliated for meeting in her room.
“Good evening,” he whispered, stepping inside, his smile bearing the signs of both tiredness and joy.
“Good evening,” she simply answered before hugging him tenderly, resting her head against his chest where she could hear his heart beating. “I have truly missed you. We barely had time for a few brief walks.”
“And next week, we won’t even be in the same house. I don’t know how I’ll survive seeing you so rarely. Now, give me a kiss, soon-to-be Baroness von Trapp.”
She tilted her face up for the kiss he had asked for, her smile already blooming in anticipation. It began as something sweet, soft, familiar. But then his arms tightened around her, and hers slipped up around his neck—and suddenly, they weren’t so much greeting each other as rediscovering each other.
For a moment, the world shrank to just this—his lips on hers, the quiet hush of the room, the warmth between them.
When they finally parted, breathless and smiling, she let her hands slide down his arms and took one of his hands in hers.
“Well then, Baron von Trapp,” she said with mock solemnity, “may I offer you a seat by the fire?”
With exaggerated grace, she led him toward the divan as if she were the dashing officer and he a blushing debutante. Georg chuckled, clearly delighted, but played along, lifting the hem of his robe in a pantomime curtsy… before sinking on the rug, subverting once again the established order.
As Georg sank onto the rug with a dramatic sigh, propping himself up on one elbow and giving her that look—equal parts amused and smitten—Maria didn’t wait.
With a soft laugh, she simply dropped to her knees in front of him, the hem of her robe billowing around her.
“I suppose now I must swoon into your arms, mein Herr,” she declared, placing a theatrical hand to her forehead.
Before he could offer a witty retort, she leaned forward and, with a gleeful little hum, tipped herself straight into his lap, arms winding around his shoulders with playful determination.
Georg let out a soft “oof” of surprise, followed by a low chuckle as his arms instinctively closed around her.
“Well, that’s one way to claim your seat,” he murmured against her hair, nuzzling her temple.
“I’m not sharing,” she said, and snuggled in like she meant it.
“Can you believe that this will be normal for us in a week? That we will not have to strain our voice and our ears, that we might even decide to fall asleep like this, by the fire?”
“You know, now that I think of it, it would be the perfect prank to have our chaperones find us asleep here tomorrow morning.”
“We need our witnesses to get married, Maria. If they die of heart attack, we will have to make new friends in a week.”
“Or we could just pick up someone from the street and pay him or her.”
“I see the Baroness has already started her management of the estate!”
“You taught me, dear Baron!”
They laughed in the most subdued way possible. “Oh, dear, how I missed these moments. I am so glad they will return to be our everyday interaction soon,” Georg said. He also looked a little bit around to find visual cues of what had happened yesterday. “You really moved a lot of your things to my… to our room. It looks so empty, now that you have also packed for your week at the Abbey.” He gulped. “You cannot imagine how much it means to me, to see your things already in our room, to see what you have prepared for the honeymoon…”
“I have never been this happy to pack my things.” Maria then caught the occasion for yet another joke. “Last time you ordered me to pack my things, I don’t remember either of us being particularly happy with the other…”
“Maria, if we don’t stop laughing, someone is going to hear us!”
“All right, then let’s talk about the scratch on the Austro-Daimler. It is not my fault that Kurt had hidden inside the car to prank me by scaring me and I hit a vase!”
Surprise completely contorted Georg's face, who had no idea that such a thing had happened.
“The Austro-Daimler. The car we are going to get married in.”
“That one.”
“Something tells me Kurt is not going to have his strudel at the wedding”
“Oh, come on, Georg, the prank was funny… he just should have done it as the motor was off! I agree you should scold him, but let the children enjoy the wedding.”
Georg studied her. “What did you tell him?”
“Never to do that again when someone is driving, and that you would teach him how to completely repaint the car, and have him do it. If we were already married, I would have added that the cost for the paint would be deducted from his inheritance, or something like that. Baroness-like, you know.”
“The first part is true, right? Not one of your jokes?”
“Absolutely true.”
“Not bad, Baroness, not bad. But now I would like to concentrate on how beautiful you look here in my arms by the fireplace, if you don’t mind.”
Maria threaded her fingers in his hair. “You look very handsome, too, fireplace or not. And I cannot avoid noticing, your neck is free of collars and ties.”
How could a young woman who had never been in love before and whose experience amounted to two lame kisses be so spontaneously sensual and seductive?
Georg gave her a slow, deliberate smile.
“Ah yes. The woman who once blushed at the word ‘swimming’ now undoes me with a single glance at my collarbone.”
Maria laughed softly, but there was a shimmer of something deeper behind her eyes as she drew her fingers down from his hair to rest lightly at his throat.
“You undid yourself, my love. The moment you dared to come to my room dressed like this.”
Georg’s hand slid to her waist, his thumb tracing the tie of her robe. “Are you saying I’ve lost control?”
“I’m saying…” she paused, her nose brushing against his, “that you’re not the only rebel in this room.”
Their kiss this time was slower, deeper. No longer playful, but full of anticipation and reverence, like the first note of a song they had been waiting their whole lives to hear played in full.
And still, even as their bodies curled closer together, even as the fire cast soft gold across their skin, they didn’t rush. It wasn’t need, but knowing—the quiet certainty that they belonged to one another now, completely. That there was nothing left to doubt, or fear, or prove.
Exploring his neck for the first time was a slow moment of getting even nearer to the man she would soon call hers by law and faith, and Georg yielded willingly to that sweet torture.
They had missed their few moments of passion; and yet their exploration of each other remained slow, unhurried, full of the trust that had bonded them.
But Georg did have an important concern to share, and he voiced as he was slowly removing Maria’s robe.
“Maria, tonight I mean to ready you, completely, before I can claim you fully.” He took her head in his hands with tenderness. “Do you understand what I mean? Do you trust me? I want you to feel only joy when we meet again like this in a week.”
Maria simply nodded, unable to speak. Was it sinful to long for this touch? Was it wrong that she trusted him more now than ever before?
**EE**
They helped each other remove the remaining garments, working in unison as they would soon in their life, and for the first time they reverentially gazed at each other completely bared, their skin intimately connected, no trace of shame whatsoever.
She had thought she knew his hands. She had thought she knew how he would feel under her hands. She had not. Not like this. Not when they mapped her as if learning a language only she could speak. Not when she discovered every single detail of him, and lost herself in him.
She abandoned herself to him, waiting for those familiar sensations and peaks to come. And then the moment came when she had to trust him.
He was, as was his usual, leaning sideways, one arm embracing her, the other on her skin, and he watched her intently, to check for her reaction. He kissed her languidly, while he slowly let one finger slip in—cautiously, almost apologetically.
She felt the intimacy of having a part of him inside her.
When he saw she was still relaxed and trustful, he added a second, very slowly. She flinched for a second, but tried to relax, and soon she felt it slide in, too. He tentatively explored, gently, learning, until…
“Oh, Georg!”
He had found what he was looking for, and whatever restraint she had left slipped away. She gave herself over—not just to his ministrations, but to the man who would soon be her husband, who took care of her completely and guided her to her next peak, both holding nothing back.
Afterwards, when she had taken care of him, too, he opened his eyes slowly, still caught in the haze of pleasure—and stilled.
There she lay, chest rising and falling, skin flushed, lips parted. And there, the proof of him—glistening, warm, unmistakable—some just below her navel, some just above it, some next to her heartbeat. His. Not hidden or wiped away, but there for his eyes to see, like some ancient seal that marked what was already his heart’s truth.
The sight struck him deeper than release itself. A possessive ache bloomed in his chest—not unkind, but primal. He wanted the world to know she belonged to him. But more than that, he wanted her to feel it. Not because he had taken, but because she had given. This, too, was a kind of vow.
He bent down, pressing a kiss to the place where his body had touched hers. A strange kind of reverence flooded him—as if her skin had become sacred ground.
When she reached for him again and her eyes pleaded for more, he hesitated. Not from lack of wanting; God knew he wanted her more than breath. But… they hadn’t exactly washed. And his body had already claimed her skin in a way that made even he wonder just how far was too far.
But he could never say no to her, and she to him.
The second time was slower, deeper—his hands gentler, his voice lower, as if they knew they would need this memory to keep her warm during the days still left before their vows. And yet again, when he spilled himself, her hand tight on him, it was against her, upon her, the heat unmistakable below her navel.
Her skin hummed with his love, and yet her mind could not quite still. She curled against him, flushed and trembling, only half aware of the warmth that still lingered between her thighs.
She had always thought she would know—would feel a boundary being crossed. But now, wrapped in Georg’s arms and still tingling from his touch, she wasn’t so sure.
It hadn’t been much. Just his fingers. And yet…
They had crossed no line—but they had seen it, tasted it. And next time, it would be theirs to cross. But now… now, could this have been enough to create life?
Still wrapped in his arms, she murmured between kisses, contentedness winning over worry. “Only a week, still.” It meant a lot to them, now. A week.
“One week,” he whispered, brushing his knuckles against her cheek and returning her kisses. “Seven days until I can call you mine before God and man. But you know that you already are, and that I am yours. Have been since that Ländler.”
“I am yours, and you are mine.”
Chapter 13: Last week as a Fräulein
Summary:
Maria's final week as a "Fräulein", as a Miss, is a whirlwind of preparations and new experiences before her wedding to Georg. Guests begin to arrive, including Georg's former comrades-in-arms—among them the charming Knežević and the historically borrowed Friedrich Schlosser and Count Montecuccoli —as well as his artist sister, Hede. Amidst wedding dress fittings, Maria navigates the unfamiliar waters of high society, leading to a hilariously embarrassing incident. Her inexperience in this new world results in a candid discussion, which greatly amuses Agathe's distant cousin Yvonne, though Elsa is decidedly less entertained.
On a more serious note, Maria and Georg face a moment of reckoning before their religious wedding. Their pre-marital "sins" necessitate a confession, prompting heartfelt requests for forgiveness and a display of their bond's complexity and humanity. This blend of humor and spiritual reflection, set against the backdrop of Belle Époque elegance, underscores Maria's journey from governess to a wife entering both a new family and a new social sphere
Notes:
Friedrich Schlosser and Count Montecuccoli were comrades-in-arms of the real GvT, so I borrowed them. Knežević is my original character from prologue.
This is one of the very few short chapters in this story. I will make up for it: some chapters are really long, as they cover an entire year worth of events. ;-)
See you at the wedding, then!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Before leading her outside for the goodbyes and driving her to the Abbey, Georg took her hand, playfully but forcefully pulling her towards him, grinning.
Knowing that everyone was outside to kiss her goodbye, he pulled her to him for a passionate kiss, then pushed her to the wall to deepen scandalously the kiss and the embrace. A masterful seduction through his lips, his tongue, and his hands that reminded her of the previous night—alas, not the kind of thought Maria wanted to have roaming in her head as she set foot into Nonnberg again, but she would live with it.
A little too much for the stairs, though. With a tremendous effort to fight her usual loss of rationality when in his arms (or when looking into his eyes, or when dancing with him, or…), she pulled away briefly and said, “Should we be doing this now, darling?”
“I cannot bear the thought of you at the Abbey for a week, my love. I want you to remember that this is your house. That this will be your treatment when you come back. As my wife. Forever.”
Heavens, if she had known he was this intense, she would have married him the day he changed his attitude towards the children!
Threading her hand through his hair, she told him: “How could I forget?”
Equally unforgettable was her goodbye to the children, appearances restored (but not enough to avoid getting a menacing stare from Max, an amused one from the Whiteheads, and a wink from Liesl). Each and every one of them freely hugged her tightly, as she has taught them, and kissed her. Liesl’s “Oh, I am so looking forward to the wedding!” was followed by Friedrich’s “I will keep Father company! And if anyone dares to talk badly about you while you’re away, they’ll answer to me.” (what had he heard? Or, better, overheard?), Louisa’s “I will keep the boys in check!”, Kurt’s “I will keep an eye on Father!” (she definitely needed to have a chat with Kurt about his reading material, because… where else could he get certain ideas at eleven?), Brigitta’s “Can we visit you if we miss you too much?”, Martha’s “I’ll be good, I promise!”, and finally Gretl’s “I don’t want you to go, but Father says you will stay forever when you come back!”.
She praised the Lord for all the love she had been gifted.
Her week of preparation at the convent had to be heavily reworked, due to her need to combine spiritual retreat with the duties of a soon-to-be bride and new member of high society, not to mention the more practical arrangements related to the wedding.
A few meetings with Father Peter—sometimes alone, sometimes together with Georg—were scheduled. She was also to join the sisters in their prayers as much as possible, help with the school, converse with the Mother Abbess, but she had the freedom to shape her days as she saw fit.
On Saturday morning, she would go to the registry office to sign, and she would be married by law to Georg, but she would get back to the convent for the church wedding in the beautiful gothic church on Sunday, when—as Gretl had said—she would never leave again.
On Wednesday, after their meeting with Father Peter, Georg relinquished her not to the Sisters, but to a familiar face and a new one, namely Elsa and Princess Yvonne, “a distant cousin of Agathe’s,” Georg simply said.
When Georg had gone back home, and the ladies were sitting at the elegant bar of the hotel where both Elsa and Yvonne were staying, the Österreichischer Hof, Yvonne casually revealed about herself: “I was one of the other options considered for Georg’s remarriage, but then Elsa has always been more sociable and prone to action.”
Maria was once again reminded by such a casual remark that she was entering a new world; a world where some people truly played a game she didn’t know in a league she wasn’t interested in joining. Frankly, she was even scared to ask who had been making lists of eligible women for Georg!
“Georg has really surprised us all. Falling in love again, so utterly and completely!” Elsa said, matter-of-factly.
“But dear Maria, Elsa has already told me much about you. Let me get to know you better. I know you are an intelligent and educated woman who took the opportunity to elevate herself through study and hard work.” Yvonne really had no filter, her rank showing. “I can see that it’s true that you love sports, too. I watched your posture and your figure: you will be all the rage in any salon, my dear! Of course, I know Georg is not the type to spend all of his time at parties, but you will definitely make a few appearances here and there!” A genuine compliment! “Georg tells me you love the children as if they were your own!”
“It’s true, Princess!”
“It’s Yvonne, dear! We are to be family! Oh, Agathe will definitely bless you from above. She was as close to her children as many commoner mothers are. Alas, that is probably what took her away, poor cousin.”
Yep, absolutely no filter at all.
“Yvonne, could we please leave the dear departed in heaven, resting in eternal peace, and concentrate on the present task? Preparing Maria for her role and for the wedding, cementing friendships, maybe take a bite of this cake? Maria, you can eat it all—you and your sport—but Yvonne and I would pay for it dearly.”
And so, Maria told Yvonne a little about herself, the princess often interrupting with completely unfiltered comments or genuine compliments. She was particularly fascinated by Maria’s pedagogical and educational approach, a blend of old and new methodology, which, as Yvonne commented, “if it works on both the working class and the aristocracy, must be something to support!”
Maria could notice Elsa’s almost imperceptible gestures of disappointment or lack of patience at the most outrageous remarks by Yvonne, and she tried to show her support with a few strategically placed smiles.
Talking about fashion was not too bad, although Betty would have loved it more. She didn’t think she could base a good part of her personality on fashion and style, but she guessed she could exchange a few words about it. And she enjoyed looking good, now. Music was, as usual, her turf; history and politics would need to be treaded on carefully. In the end, she knew that the occasional, sparse high society appointment would not be too bad.
“So, what is on our task list next?” Yvonne asked.
“Oh, you will love it, Yvonne. Last fitting of the wedding dress!” Elsa knew how to keep the atmosphere going.
“Oh, dear, why are we still here then? I long to see the bride in her dress!”
“Calm down, Yvonne. The appointment is at three. We have all the time we need. You know, nothing, not even my best praise of the virtues of the two lovebirds in the mightiest Viennese salon, will be better at convincing society that you” she turned towards Maria “are not pregnant than this dress! It is so tight-fitted!”
While Yvonne giggled elegantly at her friend’s joke, Maria, still not used to ‘mastering society’, could not control a blush and a nervous tick. She lowered her gaze and got lost in her coffee cup, then started playing nervously with the cake.
Elsa and Yvonne noticed.
They looked at each other flabbergasted.
Elsa attacked. “Maria?”
“Yes, Elsa?”
“We were saying… we have the last fitting, of your tight wedding dress, a white dress, and you are not pregnant?”
Maria clearly struggled with finding a way to begin her reply.
An artillery attack by Elsa ensued, almost whispered—or hissed. “Maria! Are. You. Pregnant? Oh, I am going to kill Max and the Whiteheads!”
Maria knew she had to say something. “Well, no, not that I know of, but…”
“Maria, a ‘no’ followed by a ‘but’ means yes.” Elsa’s enunciation was becoming increasingly articulated. Her mind was picturing several scenarios, one specific (and very common) explanation suddenly coming to the forefront. It was all plausible: Georg had been losing his mind since July, Maria was inexperienced, the three male chaperones were certified idiots…
“Well…” That was embarrassing. How could she explain without explaining? Society, manners, privacy, religion: all dictated that she not say precisely what she had been doing; however, since she could not behave as impeccably as Elsa in public, and she had given away her doubts, she was now forced to share her doubts about what had happened the night before.
A stroke of genius brought to her by her teacher background showed her the way. “Technically speaking,”—Elsa was feeling a headache come on, whereas Yvonne was absolutely compelled by the scene—“there was no… joining! You know, the way it takes to…”
“Yes, yes, we know. No joining. No joining is good.” Elsa and Yvonne thought that maybe the young, innocent fiancée had just been scared by a particularly passioned embrace.
“However, …”
Oh, no. Let it be a stupid passionate embrace.
“… there might have been some… something might have gone somewhere we hadn’t planned!” There, I said it.
Maria wished. “I am afraid that does not really help us to understand how bad the situation is,” observed Elsa, a woman with a mission.
Maria had reached a shade of red that would make her a perfect decoration for a Black Forest cake. Yvonne, her coffee long forgotten to avoid choking, didn’t think they would be able to extract more precise information from the young bride, especially not in a café, and she frankly didn’t fancy hearing the more clinical details of her friends’ exploits in the bedroom. So, she went for the most practical, Elsa-like solution. Or at least, she thought it would be Elsa-like.
“Maria, dear, if you truly are worried, why not see a doctor?”
Elsa sighed and put her hands on the table palm down, slowly.
“What is it, Elsa?”
“You know what they say about secrets?”
Both Yvonne and Maria shook their heads.
“If two people know it, it’s not a secret anymore.” Elsa stared at both the women, as severe as an officer primed to punish his soldiers. “Besides, most of my gossip comes from Dr Rombacher himself.”
Yvonne gasped, eyes wide open. One of the most sought-after doctors among Viennese society, gaining access to the best salons using gossip as coin, apparently.
“Back to our task. Yvonne, keep an eye on the clock, will you? Thanks. Maria, when did this… supposed incident happen?”
Maria didn’t hesitate. “Last Sunday.”
“Last Sunday. Good. The fitting is today, the wedding is on Sunday next. I say we forget this conversation ever happened. You are going to be as slender as you are now.”
Yvonne still had something to say. “My dear Maria, I thought you were simply marrying into high society. Turns out you’ve delivered us a proper royal scandal! Elsa was right when she said you do everything wholeheartedly!”
Elsa was glad it was time to go to the fitting.
Maria’s afternoon with her new high-society friends might have seemed a simple moment of lightness in a week full of appointments, things to do or to pick up, directions as to what went into her luggage and what into Georg’s apartments. Cake, coffee, a new alliance and many tips, the dress fitted. The few guests on their list steadily arriving and taking place either at the Österreichischer Hof or at the villa. Another coffee meeting, this time at Café Tomaselli, to meet Georg’s sister, Hede, the artist (“If I hadn’t heard you play the violin or the guitar, or singing, I would never believe you have an artist for a sister, darling,” she had mocked him). Hede was incredibly happy to see her younger brother and his brood happy. “They are all that is left of my family, you know.” She could understand.
“I also look forward to seeing you in Paris. On your own schedule, of course. Enjoy your honeymoon, first! But you will love my art circle. I hear you love music, even contemporary music. That is going to be very interesting.”
There was then another meeting, once again at Tomaselli.
“Maria, darling, these are Alfons Count von Montecuccoli degli Erri, Friedrich Schlosser, and Stjepan Knežević—some of my former comrades-in-arms.”
As Maria summoned all her strength not to look or sound like a complete idiot, the three elegant men, who had stood immediately upon her arrival, offered to kiss her hand, lending the Café a sudden air of Belle Époque elegance. She somehow managed a “Pleasure to meet you” with each of the former officers, young Count included, and sat down.
The three men all looked rather kind. The one with the foreign name seemed a little more approachable, and was, in fact, the first to speak.
“Ah, Trapp—once again you remind us that even in a broken world, love finds its way. And in your case, always with the most luminous of stars.”
Georg glared at him. “Knežević is the commander I relinquished the Cattaro base to at the end of the war. He stayed on as a Yugoslav officer, and made it to Vice Admiral.”
Schlosser could not resist. “He outranks us all now! Even you, Montecuccoli!”
Knežević gave a mock sigh. “Well, considering you now have neither Navy nor titles, it’s not that impressive an accomplishment.”
Montecuccoli replied with a smile. “Thank you for your gallantry, Knežević. Will you wear your old uniform at the ceremony, despite all?”
“Of course. Unless you plan on informing the High Command…”
“That depends on how you behave these days,” the Count tutted, mock-stern.
“Does mocking Trapp for his atrocious Croatian and Slovenian count as misbehaving?” He turned to Maria, smiling. “Forgive me for teasing your future husband, but he always mixed up the two languages—and these years in Austria haven’t helped either.”
Maria thus found herself drawn into a lively discussion filled with language confusion, jokes she was probably better off not understanding about dying at sea (or beneath it), and the usual gallantries one employed in the presence of a lady.
She noticed Georg’s quiet fondness for the Croatian—it was the kind of affection born of war, respect, and endless ribbing.
However light these moments were, she was reminded of her embarrassing discussion—the one that officially had never happened— on Saturday. After the register office, she and Georg had their confession scheduled, to be able to partake in the Holy Communion on their wedding.
Both of them had cowardly avoided confessing their encounters until that moment, knowing that one of the conditions for forgiveness was the promise not to sin anymore. Thus, they had not partaken in the Eucharist, either. Georg’s worry about Maria’s fear or pain were sweet, but the doctrine was black on white. They had sinned, and now they would have to admit it.
Surprisingly to them, Father Peter took their confessions for what they were: each of them a sincere unburdening, a heartfelt request for forgiveness as sinners, a revelation of the complexity of their bond, a show of humanity. Their ministry was faced continuously with similar confessions (if not worse), or with children born mysteriously 6-8 months after the wedding, and pregnant women left to fend for themselves.
The priest had only gently reminded them to entrust their heart to God as well as to their spouse, to strive to orientate their marriage and family life to the teachings of the Church , and asked them to recite the rosary.
When Georg had finished his confession — he had gone first, voluntarily— he told Maria goodbye before heading for home, their last separation. He kissed her on her lips, lingering a little but remaining chaste, and had whispered “Tomorrow, my love,” before relinquishing her to Father Peter’s spiritual care.
Later, Maria, kneeling in the Abbey chapel, and likewise Georg, kneeling in his room—theirs, come tomorrow—, fingers moving over their rosary beads, prayed with an intensity that had nothing to do with guilt, but everything to do with longing. A longing to be worthy of what they were about to receive. A longing to be the spouse the other deserved. A prayer to be strong for when those hard times heralded by Father Peter and the Mother Abbess would come.
Notes:
Montecuccoli degli Erri is actually a family from my hometown Modena, at the time an independent Duchy in the North of the Italian Peninsula. The family later chose to serve the Emperor in Vienna, and that’s how some of them ended up writing pages of Austrian history. However, their ancestral home is still near Pavullo, province of Modena.
Chapter 14: This must be the place
Summary:
Georg and Maria are finally married in a religious ceremony, officially beginning their life together. Their wedding day is marked by the heartwarming presence of their children and the loyalty of Georg's comrades, along with the spirited friendship of Max and Elsa, who engage in their characteristic banter and teasing. The couple then embarks on their wedding night and honeymoon, a journey that further strengthens their already deep bond. Their return home is met with a sweet embrace from the children and amusing tales of mischief from their friends.
Notes:
- For readers who prefer to keep the story 100% M, please stop reading at the first **EEEE** marker and resume at the second ****. While this section avoids crude language or clinical details and is presented tastefully, it may still be too explicit for some. Please note that the subsequent descriptions of the honeymoon continue to maintain a mature tone, as their physical connection is an important and integral aspect of their already strong relationship.
- The chapter title is drawn from the Talking Heads' song, 'This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody).'
- The Tridentine liturgy refers to the Catholic Mass as it was celebrated before the Second Vatican Council. It was conducted entirely in Latin and was known for its solemn and austere character.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
10 October 1926
It was all a blur that morning, for both of them: waking up early—too nervous to sleep—, preparing, going to the church. If there had been a moment of clarity, of thinking “I have to look amazing for my love,” it had been brief. They moved through most of the morning’s mechanics automatically.
It was only when he stood at the altar and she appeared at the end of the aisle that their minds, and hearts, truly reconnected.
Maria was escorted by the two boys, who endearingly held her hands, one on each side. Brigitta walked ahead, carrying the rings. Martha and Gretl held the train of her veil, while Liesl and Louisa bore the bouquet and a basket of mother-of-pearl rosaries chosen as gifts for the guests.
Their hands trembled during the exchange of vows, but their voices rang clear in the beautiful Gothic church atop the Nonnberg.
And since Friedrich had kindly explained the parts of the Mass to all his siblings, just before the priest intoned the Credo, the four youngest von Trapps suddenly jumped up and hugged their parents—drawing warm laughter from the entire assembly, Father Peter and the nuns included.
The older siblings retrieved the rebels with mock severity, but not without offering their own kisses to the couple, and a few conspiratorial glares to the younger ones.
Then, Father Peter—departing gently from the austerity of the Tridentine liturgy—said, “Love is the utmost commandment, and love such as this is the harvest of those who have faith. Herewith, let us recite our Creed.”
As they exited the church, first came a burst of applause. Then came a surprise.
A commanding voice called out, “Für Korvettenkapitän von Trapp und seine Braut!”
And suddenly, a gleam of drawn sabres: Montecuccoli, Knežević, Schlosser; others too. Some offered hand salutes, including Hans. Georg returned the salute with perfect precision.
Maria inclined her head ever so slightly in return. She didn’t love the glorification of war, but there was something undeniably moving—and elegant—about this silent language of respect.
Then Georg’s low voice broke through her reverie. “Shall we go take our pictures, with and without our children, wife?”
“Certainly, husband.”
As they approached the entrance of the villa, Maria glanced at Georg and murmured, “You know, walking is still within my capabilities.”
Georg’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, but it’s my matrimonial duty to carry you over the threshold. We are, after all, putting on a show.”
“And when do you not put on a show, Captain?” she teased, but she had already wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
“Only when I’m at sea,” he replied smoothly—and with that, he swept her up into his arms.
The doors opened to a burst of laughter, clapping, and the smell of apple strudel and champagne. She barely had time to register the delighted gasps of the children and the amused looks of their guests before Georg set her down with great ceremony.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, looking around, “the bride has arrived. And she didn’t have to walk a single step.”
Maria rolled her eyes. “Only at least thirty years of steps ahead of us.”
“I plan to carry you through most of them,” he murmured just for her.
Elsa was sipping champagne and surveying the ensemble with her usual regal composure, draped in something devastatingly elegant. “I could not believe it, but we did it. Maria was practically glowing. And that dress—fabulously tight at the waist. It will be a complete success! No one will talk!”
Max gave a mock-offended gasp. “As if we hadn’t been exemplary chaperones! Not a single scandal… not that anyone caught, anyway.”
Elsa lifted an eyebrow. “Yes, yes, award-winning discretion, Max. Though—speaking of that—what exactly were you doing while our darling couple was not joining, but… engaging in behaviours adjacent to joining?”
Max spluttered into his drink. “I am sorry, WHAT?”
“You heard very well. And don’t give me that look—you weren’t the one who had to have a terribly awkward conversation with our blushing bride to confirm whether any... enthusiasm had compromised the aesthetic integrity of the gown. Yvonne rather enjoyed it, though. I do hope she thanked you.”
“I knew one of us gentlemen should have bunked with Georg. I am really sorry, Elsa.” Max muttered, refilling his glass. He paused. “And yet here we are. Married. Blissfully traditional. The villa still stands, the children haven’t destroyed anything. Who would’ve thought?”
Elsa looked away, her voice suddenly softer. “Yes. Who indeed.”
They exchanged a glance that lingered just one beat too long—cool, amused, but maybe not entirely detached from the champagne-hued atmosphere around them.
Max cleared his throat with practiced elegance. “Well. I believe I’m due for a slow waltz with the mother of the bride.”
Elsa turned slowly, narrowing her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, someone had to hold Maria’s hand through this whole affair. And you did insist on vetting the dress. Twice,” said Max with feigned innocence.
“I was trying to prepare her for society and to prevent a scandal, Max. I didn’t raise her from infancy.”
“Oh, I am sure you had the tone down. All that ‘my dear, we do not use the word ‘passion’ in polite society’s business’. ‘Passion is bad’. Your usual Elsa fare.”
“Keep talking, and I’ll start behaving like a real mother-in-law.”
“Will you weep decorously and comment on fertility within earshot of the bridal couple? That would not be your style, dear.”
“No. I’ll start warning young ladies about men like you and have you quietly evirated by one of my Italian cousins’ henchmen”. Elsa’s voice was dry, and very proud.
“Evirated? That’s rather drastic, even for you.”
“Don’t worry, I’d keep the parts in a tasteful little box. Maybe in mother-of-pearl. They’d make a charming prop for one of your plays.”
“You're all heart.”
“And you’re entirely too pleased with yourself.”
“You say that like it’s not one of my most attractive features.”
“Careful, Max. One day I might stop pretending I don’t find it vaguely tolerable.”
A beat passed.
“I live in fear.” Max intoned, pausing with theatrical precision. “In fear that you might be truly affected by all this matrimonial sappiness and start losing your edge. Flirting at a wedding? Since when do you stoop to the most common of repartees?”
“Since I’ve spent a month preparing for Georg and Maria’s wedding, wrangling childish bachelors like you and the Whiteheads, coaxing Joan out of her spinster cocoon, and listening to Yvonne’s unsolicited hypotheses about what might have happened between the couple to have Maria fear a blessed event—all in her unfiltered soprano. I’m tired, frankly.”
“Let’s not forget,” Max added smoothly, “entering a perfectly ordinary establishment in Vienna, getting gloriously drunk with a twenty-two-year-old, and dancing jazz until dawn. I heard you were in bed for two days afterward.”
“You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
“You walked into it, Elsa. And I believe you’re about to fire someone from your staff for leaking it.”
Max raised his glass in a flamboyant toast. “To Baroness von Schräder—grateful heir of the Austrian Republic, unrepentant patron of scandalous jazz clubs, disciplinarian of society, and matriarch protectress of all maidens.”
Elsa lifted her glass in return. “I shall be an exquisite matriarch. Starting by keeping all suitable maidens at a ten-metre radius from you.”
She sipped. Then, almost too casually: “Which reminds me… I do hope you’re not planning to make your stay here with Joan too entertaining.”
Max placed a hand over his heart in mock horror. “Do you think I want to be hurled into the Whitehead factory in Fiume and vanish without a trace?”
“I’m just wondering. It’s been a while since I had to extricate you from any complicated situations. Which means the next one is bound to be very complicated.”
They had entertained their guests. The cake had been eaten. The children had sung a selection of their favourite songs—Jagdlieder, folk songs—and everyone had been moved by their talent, even Georg and Maria, who knew those voices by heart, but still felt a catch in their throats when they sang.
But now it was time.
Time to leave. Time to finally be alone together.
Before they left, they called the children aside for a private goodbye. There were smiles and excitement, but also that nervous energy that always came when goodbyes lingered just a moment too long.
They had prepared little gifts, chosen with care to soften the blow.
Gretl and Marta each got the dolls they had been seen eyeing in a shop window in town; Brigitta and Louisa received the books they'd wished for and quietly whispered about during errands. Kurt got a splendid new toy car; and Friedrich and Liesl new tennis rackets, perfect for the invitations they were now receiving from school friends.
And of course, there was a promise: more presents from Paris. They would not be forgotten.
But the children had prepared something, too.
It was a diorama—painstakingly made in paper and cardboard—recreating the family huddled together at Castle Glanegg after their hike to Zeppezauer Haus. Everyone was soaking wet, waiting for the thunderstorm to pass.
Maria and Georg burst into laughter the moment they saw it. But then, their eyes softened. That moment—ridiculous, messy, united—had felt like the first time they’d truly been a family. Adults carrying the little ones, wet shoes squeaking on stone floors, warm arms and laughter shared in the middle of a storm. And, of course, some flirting.
Then Liesl stepped forward, with a book in her hands. “I wanted you to have this, Mother,” she said, gently. Pride and Prejudice, in German.
Maria gasped softly. “Liesl…”
“Do you remember when we talked about it? When I finished it, it made me think of you. It’s about people getting terrible first impressions.”
Maria laughed through a tear. “Oh, Liesl, if you’re implying that your father and I started with a terrible first impression… well, you’re wrong! Quite the contrary, in fact. It was his second impression that ruined it all!”
That made everyone laugh—even Georg, who lifted a brow as if to say she wasn’t entirely wrong.
Their parting hugs were tight and warm. Kisses were given in multiples, especially by Maria, who found it harder and harder to let go of each child. Words of affection and solemn promises were exchanged: promises not to destroy the villa in their absence, not to exasperate Max or Joan or poor Frau Schmidt.
And then it happened: all the children called her Mother. Not “Fräulein Maria.” Not “Maria.” Just Mother.
And she cried.
It wasn’t a sob, not a grand, dramatic thing. Just a quiet welling-up, a few shimmering tears, as she held them close and felt—fully, for the first time—their unreserved love.
She glanced at Georg, and found him already watching her. Not surprised. Just proud. Moved.
They were ready to go.
The suite smelled faintly of polished wood and roses. The concierge had already brought their things inside, and left immediately, not before an elegant bow and a “We wish you a good stay.”
Maria was fidgeting with Georg’s service cap when she felt his hands around her waist.
“Don’t tell me,” she said without turning. “You want to carry me inside… again?”
“You’ve guessed it,” he said, then added, “Besides, tradition doesn’t end at the villa threshold.”
“You’re not seriously going to—”
But he was already lifting her, arms secure, eyes locked on hers.
“I believe this is the part,” he murmured, “where I carry my wife into our suite, in case she’s suddenly lost all leg function due to dancing, champagne, or sheer happiness.”
“I will have you know,” she said primly, trying not to laugh, “that I still have some dignity left.”
“We’ll see about that,” he replied, and kicked the door shut with one elegant movement.
She couldn’t help it—she laughed until he kissed her.
He then put her down, and they looked at each other as they finally found themselves alone and free.
And they had no idea what to do first.
They stood there, looking, just looking at each other.
So many choices: kiss again? Sit down and talk? Explore the suite as if they were curious children?
They started laughing in unison, and enjoyed their closeness, finally free of tasks, and chaperones, and schedules.
Georg then took her hands, and pressed a kiss on each of them. “I thought I might kiss you again, and then guide you to the exploration of the suite, as a good sea captain.”
“You even look the part, this time.”
A tender and long kiss ensued, then Maria put the service cap back on Georg’s head, and announced, “Will the gallant captain show me the ship?”
Georg let out a throaty laugh, kissed the tip of her nose, took her hand, and showed her around, solemnly announcing the various rooms of the suite. His voice did turn husky when he said, “This is our bedroom.”
But Maria did not look at him with fear, or even with apprehension. Only with joy.
She took his service cap away and threw it on the bed, then kissed him again.
Georg had imagined they would sit by the fireplace for a while, they would talk… but it seemed like Maria had other ideas, from the way she pressed herself against him and caressed his shoulders.
“You know, this dress is very tight. And your sabre, although elegant, makes me fear incidents. How do I remove it? My dress opens on the back, of course.”
“A man wants to romance his wife, but then his plans all go awry like this!”
Maria wasn’t joking when she said, in a husky voice, “Romance? If you make me fall in love with you even more, you might not be able to have a minute by yourself, without me, ever!”
Georg’s eyes darkened, his voice becoming lower. “That is an enticing prospect. And I will have you remember that I was already a little taken with you when you still disliked me, so it’s only natural that I would need to do… umph!”
Maria kissed him to silence him. “I cannot remove all of our elegant wedding attire by myself.”
**EEEE**
He kissed her neck with ardent passion, and started opening her dress, enjoying her reaction as if it were the first time she had almost fainted in his arms because of the sensations he had elicited.
“Let me hear it, Maria. No restraint tonight.” There would be no muffling moans or screams.
They removed their clothing together, every move a silent declaration of love.
When they finally stood together, bare, in their bedroom, they looked at each other, and let their hands explore and admire freely and completely. There was a little bit of humour, too, as Georg had already turned her around to adore her shapely back, and Maria requested that he turn around, too.
“You should have noticed I love your back, darling. My hands are often on it.”
But soon the exploration turned to their now well-rehearsed passion, hands and lips on Maria’s skin, her response finally free of any boundary, until she was completely undone, and completely prepared for him.
Maria, still reeling from the wave that had overwhelmed her, watched him with hooded eyes as he propped up two pillows against the headboard, and sat down again against them, his movements bearing the sign of the effort he was making not to lose control. He then motioned for her to straddle him, his hands stretching out and taking hers, another promise in his touch, another unspoken vow.
Feeling each other’s skin, each other’s heat like that, in that moment, was just… incredible. She looked down to see his beautiful eyes completely darkened, and the familiar mixture of tenderness and ardent passion. He saw in her desire and confusion, all together. They watched their chests heaving, their eyes asking questions.
She brushed his arms before settling his hands on his shoulders. He took her hips, then continued brushing her while he talked.
“Maria… when you are ready… lower yourself onto me. Take your time.”
It was so intimate, their heads so near, looking down into his eyes, to simply slide onto him. There was another instant of flinching, but the desire to join with him completely was unstoppable.
Every movement of hers was a gaze, a brushing of his hands on her, a grip on his shoulder.
When she had made him slid inside completely, and she had cried out, Georg said, “Stay still for a while. Get used to me,” his voice straining. He was stroking her everywhere, and then he leaned in for a languid kiss.
The sensation of having the man she loved inside her was incredible. She knew she would be completely different after this. And not just because of her physical transformation, but because of the intimacy of such a setting.
But soon, the memory of her past encounters with him, as well as instinct, made her move, tentatively at first, Georg’s hands supporting her without imposing. “Find the right angle for you, love,” he ordered in a throaty whisper that let her feel how much he must be burning for her, for this.
And found the right angle she did. She moaned unreservedly, then, her gaze never leaving his, except for when she simply had to shut her eyes. She felt his hands on her skin, on her hips; she felt her wetness pouring out of her, on him; she heard his moans, and she could feel his taut muscles contracting. She almost went mad when he bit her neck, or when he kissed her, sloppily.
Then, she was undone, in a way that she had never experienced so far.
Georg’s hands on her hips started gripping her then, and she felt him take control of their movements, and she liked it, immensely, his gaze always on her face to see her reactions.
She knew she would peak again when she kissed him and felt him lose control completely: his breath ragged, his motions desperate until she felt and heard him peak —inside her—and followed him again.
She collapsed in his arms when he had stilled completely, and he gathered her willingly, tenderly, possessively, chests still heaving.
She tightened her embrace, too, knowing that she was now really his, and he was now really hers.
After a while, he turned them over on their side, and caressed her cheek. “Are you all right, my love?”
“More than ever.”
“Are you in pain?”
How could she explain it to him? “I… can feel in my body what we have done, but… it was so beautiful, and… I am still so… wet… no, no pain.”
“I wanted to let you have the control… but in the end I feared I had been too forceful.”
“No, no, Georg, it was lovely, and so intimate, seeing you like that, unleashed, for me.”
****
Georg kept caressing her cheek, then let his fingers glide down her jaw, brushing the slope of her neck. His voice was rough with the remnants of desire, but softened by something else.
“You’re extraordinary, Maria. You love so unreservedly, when you decide to offer your heart. It was only logical that you should be the same in every facet of love.” He kissed her temple.
“Yet another thing we have in common.” She returned the kiss with a peck on his jaw.
“It is making me very curious, you know, where our love will bring us.”
“Remember that Elsa and Max have asked ‘not into active politics’. Apart from that, I am ready to explore anything with you.
Georg chuckled. “I am ready, too.”
They lay in silence for a while, only their breaths and occasional kisses filling the warm air. Then Maria stirred. “I’m starving.”
He reached for the phone. “Shall we summon eine Kleinigkeit zum Essen? Something to sustain us through the night watch?”
Maria giggled. “I shall allow the captain to procure provisions. And I will finally make use of those expensive lingerie purchases. Mmmh, should I try Munich or Vienna first?”
Georg rolled on his back, his hands on his face, laughing. “You will be the death of me!”
Soon enough, there were delicate sandwiches, a little tray with sliced fruit, champagne, and some Linzer Torte. They sat cross-legged on the divan by the fireplace, the light low, limbs tangled, laughing and feeding each other bites between stolen kisses, she in one of her Munich robes and gowns, he in a new gown he had bought thinking of how to impress her.
Maria took a sip of champagne and sighed. “A pity that we didn’t really dance today.”
Georg suggested, “There will be plenty of opportunities in Paris, darling. Sadly, at Hede’s party, I will have to let you dance with other men too, but when we will be visiting establishments, you will be only mine.” He gave her an affectionate kiss on the corner of her mouth.
“I am looking forward to understanding more of this fabled ‘Trapp rebel streak’ by getting to know Hede. I am already well aware of the Trapp good looks.”
“You were aware of the Trapp good looks from the moment you saw me, confess it.”
“Why do you think I saluted you? You had scared me in the middle of my thoughts, and then you just appeared in all of your aesthetic and sartorial perfection! I could not think anymore!”
“What about you? Even in an ugly dress, you were the most beautiful vision I had seen in a while, daydreaming in front of my beloved flag.”
Their gaze crossed again, their eyes darkened.
Georg began, tentatively. “You are not hungry anymore, are you?”
Maria shook her head.
“You are absolutely sure you are not in any pain?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
That second time was different. Gone was Georg’s fear, and she felt it in the way he moved over her, in the way he made her sit on him on the divan, and then in the way he pulled her back to their bed and had her beneath him. Only his attentiveness for what brought her pleasure remained.
Afterwards, when she had found the courage to talk to him about it, he simply said: “My wife always leaves the bed satisfied,” with pride in his voice, as when he spoke of his medals.
She found it sweet; only a while later she really understood how sweet he was.
Later, they fell asleep naked, in bed, after a tender good night. Maria slowly tucked herself under his chin, her breath still shallow, the sheets lazily wrapped around them both. Georg held her close, protective even in exhaustion, one hand smoothing the back of her hair, the other gently tracing circles on her shoulder. He kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Sleep now, my darling. Your first night in my arms.”
She smiled against his chest and let herself drift, her fingers still resting over his heart.
He stayed awake a little longer, just to watch her.
The sun creeping through the curtains had stirred her.
If what they had done last night had been intimate, this was even more intimate. They were still together, skin against skin, after a night of sleep in their arms, their hearts beating next to each other.
There was also another fascinating detail in that scene. Georg’s unmistakable ardour first, brushing against her thigh; and then his voice, half-yawn, half-moan, while stirring—rumbling, manly, deep.
“Good morning, wife.” He looked down at her, groggy but happy.
“Good morning, husband.” Her happiness and grogginess were on par with his.
She hesitated for a while, then decided to dare brush him.
His last words were, “Any pain at all? Are you sure?” and then he took her again, still tenderly but with a hint of possessiveness—with her beneath him, as lost in admiring him as he was in adoring her.
Just after the hour when Max and Joan realised how difficult it was to send seven children to school — and had to enlist not only Frau Schmidt but also every available guest of the villa —and just as Yvonne knocked on Elsa’s hotel door to exchange thoughts on the mysterious noises heard during the night — thoughts which Elsa received with the serenity of a woman deciding whether to commit murder before or after breakfast, an elegant couple descended the stairs of the Österreichischer Hof.
At first, they were simply holding hands. But upon catching the outraged stares of a few guests, they smoothly switched to their usual pose — she on his arm, his smile somewhere between gallant and wicked.
They were still laughing when he said, “They should be happy I didn’t carry you down or kissed you!”
“Georg! Some of our guests are staying here too!”
“Which should have spread the word that we just married, for love.”
They entered the luxurious breakfast room laughing still, ignoring the scandalised stares, and greeting Count Montecuccoli, who was already breakfasting and elegantly greeted them without imposing his presence, before sitting down.
“We have all the time in the world. We could take the first train to Munich and leisurely stroll there waiting for the Orient Express to bring us to Paris. Or we could rest here a little bit, if you are tired.”
Maria was already devouring her breakfast. Her five weeks culminating in the wedding had been rather intense, and she enjoyed being alone with Georg, no encumbrance and no thoughts other than catching the Orient Express in Munich that evening. “I would not say that I am tired. I am rather hungry.”
“I see.” Georg grinned at her.
“We could have a relaxed day in Munich. Walk a little, talk, sit somewhere, and then depart.”
“Something tells me we will sit in a Gasthaus at least once,” Georg teased her. “I hope Montecuccoli doesn’t think I starved you!”
Their arrival in Munich, with no rush, led to a quiet afternoon of window-shopping, of coffee, of simple conversation about anything they wanted to talk about.
In the evening, they were finally ready to board the legendary Orient Express, coming from Vienna and going to Paris. Maria was absolutely bewitched by the elegant beauty of the train from the outside, and was even more surprised by the luxury of their cabin. She had thought that a train would be more subdued than a hotel, but she was wrong.
They enjoyed a private dinner, and then a very private night. Maria, with a wicked grin, declared: “I was born on a train. It only makes sense that my husband should ravish me on one.”
The choral undignified laughter that followed made it difficult for Georg to reply, “Maria! I officially forbid you to give birth to any of our children on a train! Remember: love, honour and obey!”
Yes, it was definitely good that the train was loud.
They arrived in Paris with the morning sun gilding the tracks. Maria was practically vibrating with joy — her first time abroad (and no, Bavaria didn’t count). Georg watched her take it all in, then kissed her full on the lips in the middle of the station.
“Georg!”
“We’re in France, darling. I think no one will care.”
Their memory of their honeymoon would be an impressionistic piece of art of the beginning of their life together, of their growing into their own as a couple. The one piece of art they brought home that they always kept with them, in their hearts.
Their first adventure, Montmartre, all hand in hand. Admiring the artist; visiting the Basilica, praying in it, to say thanks; exploring the streets and cafés; Maria eating crêpes with the giddy abandon of a child and Georg losing track of time watching her. Then, making love in a new bed, more than once.
The Louvre, days of stimulating their minds, all interspersed by more private interludes in their room.
The Eiffel tower, once by day, and once by night, with Georg kissing Maria as if they were alone.
Moments of simple strolls, just them and their thoughts, only to run back again to escape the rain or to follow the call of their passion.
A few days when they didn’t leave the room at all—even two days in a row sometimes—discovering all the ways and locations they could make love in a hotel room; food delivered to their sitting room.
Another stroll; the discovery of new, amazing food; then Notre Dame, a powerful experience in both sightseeing and faith.
Sitting somewhere, just reading together, or discussing what to buy for the children, or whether to buy horses or not.
A stupid quarrel about what direction to take and who had to pay attention to the road. A kiss solved it immediately.
Maria discovering that she could seduce Georg just by brushing his chest and his taut muscles in that way of hers, not a word spoken.
A shared bath in an old clawfoot tub in their suite, warm water, her legs resting over his.
A bookstore, where Maria got lost first among history books, then philosophic ones, then poetry one. Georg bought her all she wished.
Candlelit dinners where they talked about nothing and everything; where their hands brushed together often, and the rest of the world didn’t exist.
A jazz club, loud and smoky, where she persuaded him to dance. He didn’t mind. He had never danced that music in public, but joined in her happiness gladly, and in the end, he thought he definitely would not mind doing that again. And so, they did it again. And again.
Other strolls, other museums: Orsay, Rodin, Carnavalet. Some shopping for the house, then a cruise on the Seine, Georg wrapping Maria in his arms.
A mad getaway to Cannes for a few days, Georg’s idea to show Maria his beloved Mediterranean, along with another charming town. They even dared a quick dip at midday, the sun shining high. Georg loved her so intensely afterwards, wanting to taste the salt on her skin, and she felt like in that moment she really knew him.
A crazy night at the Folies Bergère to see Josephine Baker, a suggestion by Hede ‘to see what is going on right now in the world’. They reflected on how the world was changing, again. Georg told Maria that she would be allowed to dance like that only in private, before him, and Maria agreed. A rebel she was, but that kind of performance was too much even for her!
Another crazy night, this time with Hede and some of her artist friends, at the Moulin Rouge in Pigalle, of all places. Georg kissed Maria all the time as if they were in private, to get back at his sister, who simply (and gleefully) wanted to see how her brother fared in a less conventional environment. Hede declared that the couple showed good adaptation skills, and Maria understood the Trapps more at hearing that kind of joke from Hede, too.
After so much time alone, and their first foray into unconventional territory, it was time to finally visit Hede at her place in Paris.
They first paid a private visit, where Hede spoke of her books and of her art in front of coffee and croissants. She also reported that, during the first days, just before she left Salzburg to come back to Paris, the children had been a little lively, but hadn’t caused grave damages to the villa, only to Max’s and Joan’s patience. Some guests had also decided to leave in haste, after Max had tried to recruit all adults to help them out with the children.
“If we want to see the bright side in it, it means that they respect your authority immensely. Frau Schmidt say they are usually not this problematic with you two,” hypothesised Hede.
The couple exchanged a knowing look. “We fear it might also be Max’s attitude that encourages them to be more… Max-like. We are sorry for Joan, though.”
“Aww, you already speak in terms of ‘we’. Well, after all, you have actually been a family for quite some time, you told me. And you get along well. Georg, you even look younger.”
Maria blushed, as usual, and Georg looked like he used to when his sister showed him some affection as a boy. It was very endearing.
Maria then asked, “I am fascinated by the fact that you siblings were born and raised in a rather… conservative environment, but then grew up to do something rebellious, one way or another. Werner married a governess himself, and you are an artist. And we know all about Georg.”
Hede sighed, and tried to explain. “Our father did show some fire in him, with his love for the sea, which we all shared. And we most likely grew up a little rebellious because we were brought up with strict discipline, fixed roles, you name it. But not everyone understands us.” Her expression turned more serious. “I did pay a price for it. My husband was one of Georg’s Naval Academy comrades, and he divorced me, because I am too independent.”
Maria felt embarrassed. “Oh, I am sorry! Georg did not tell me…”
“It wasn’t Georg’s tale to tell, and there is nothing to be sorry about. It’s important that you two share so much, Maria, and that you respect each other so much. This is all there is to say.”
Georg was a little embarrassed, too, and brushed his sister’s hand in silent acknowledgement of how difficult it had been for her.
“I have so many friends, and I have still some family—you, the children, Constance and Connie. Speaking of friends, we are all invited to a party!”
And just like that, they were booked for an original Parisian party, at someone’s home, full of intellectuals, artists, and the most culturally interesting part of high society. Interesting conversations, a little bit of amusing difficulties when their French wasn’t enough, and a lot of music.
Georg had to watch Maria dance with many men, in one of the gorgeous ball dresses made for her before the wedding. And the men were not shy in their appreciation of Maria.
The women weren’t shy either when it came to complimenting Georg, and Maria understood Georg’s jealousy for the first time.
But Georg, remembering the first time he had seen her in a dress, noticing the men’s reactions to Maria’s figure in a ball dress, and completely seduced by his own wife in that same dress—her happiness and intelligence shining—could not control himself.
And so, he stole her away, taking her hand and leading her somewhere private, and he took her against the wall, possessively, ferociously, her decollete pushed down, her skirt bunched up, her screams of pleasure muffled by his kiss. And she had gladly let him seduce her and take her, delighting in seeing him lose control and in being so primally his.
When he took her in his arms afterwards, he admitted between heavy breaths, foreheads touching, “The things you make me do, Maria.”
One of the last images that made up their honeymoon was not just the last of the strolls, of the museums, of the shopping.
It was the afternoon in which they understood they were ready for the future; in which they understood that their emotional, intellectual and physical connection was just one single connection.
Maria was bent over the dressing table, leaning on it, one leg on a chair, completely abandoned to her husband’s ministrations and to all the sensations he was capable of eliciting; Georg was behind her, his hands on her hips, taking her with unbridled passion.
Then his voice, a low, husky whisper that barely disturbed the silence, held a sensual tremor and the profound weight of his emotion.
“Maria, look in the mirror. Look at you. Look at us.”
She looked, and saw him, and saw herself. and saw them. She saw the carnality, and she saw the look in his eyes, and the one in hers now that she could see.
She continued looking into the mirror, as did he, their gazes locking that way, until they both lost themselves in a loud moan.
They rested in each other’s arms, afterwards, on the bed, without saying a word at first, perspiration still on their skin.
After a while, Georg rolled them on their side, as he was wont to do when he wanted to speak, and caressed her, moving her hair away from her forehead.
“I keep thinking about how many faces our love has. There is the banter, where we challenge each other to a tease or to the cleverest repartee. There is seeing you with the children: loving, teaching, educating. There is you talking with me about whether to change car, or to buy horses, or visit a factory of ours. There is you being a curious person, just going around your day. Or you enjoying nature. There is you cuddling up in my arms, with or without something to read. There is you and your passion, as wild as mine, always open to explore a new side of our physical connection, never scared of us losing control. There is no side of it that I find less important. They are all you, they are all our love. And the fact that you can pass from accounting books to letting me take you like I just did… you once said you cannot think straight when I kiss you, but you do the same to me, every single time.”
Maria was almost moved to tears. “Oh, Georg. There is all of that for me too. You being you, in every single way you choose to show yourself to me.” Her voice almost broke.
“I have showed you everything I could show you so far. I do not intend to hide anything from you, and I look forward to show you more.”
Maria tightened her embrace, then, and did cry.
They were ready to go home.
The car slowed as it approached the familiar gates of the villa. The air was crisper here, cleaner than in Paris or Cannes, and carried with it the comforting scent of fir, pine, stone, and fallen leaves — that unmistakable touch of November in Salzburg.. Maria leaned against Georg’s shoulder, her fingers interlaced with his.
They didn’t speak. There was no need.
The staff had been alerted of their return, but only Max and Joan waited on the steps.
They looked rather… tired, and that’s when they remembered Hede’s words about Max and Joan being a little overwhelmed in the beginning.
“You’re back!” Max exclaimed, spreading his arms. “Did Paris survive you two?”
“Barely,” Georg said, and Maria laughed softly.
Joan sighed theatrically. “Those children are little darlings, but after this experience, I swear I shall never again complain about Connie being difficult when I’m helping out Constanze. Seven children, all rather intelligent, and an uncle whose chief occupation was—”
“—finding the best joke ever told,” Georg completed the sentence, grinning.
“And not being useful,” Joan clarified.
Georg stifled another laugh. “Joan, this shouldn’t come as a surprise to you.”
Max was grinning like the child he was, deep down.
“I mistakenly thought he would take this one task seriously,” Joan continued. “After all, if you cut him off, he will have to pay for accommodation in Salzburg—and for his liquor.”
Georg turned to Maria. “See, Baroness? We already have our first challenge as Master and Mistress of the estate. Managing Max Detweiler.”
“Maria, remember that I proposed to you first!” Max said with exaggerated distress. “Be kind!”
Before Maria could reply with, “That’s more likely to get you in more trouble,” Joan cut in, scandalised:
“Speaking of which, he even flirted with me in the evenings!”
At that, Georg and Maria’s jaws dropped in perfect synchrony.
Joan pressed on. “While I was drowning in bedtime tantrums, your dear Max was parading around like some coffeehouse Casanova. Every time I passed him in the corridor, it was, ‘Fräulein Joan, you bring light to this otherwise hopeless household.’”
Max had the gall to answer, “Well, it was true! My candle had gone out, and I couldn’t find the switch in the corridor.”
The couple remained speechless.
“And every time I scolded one of the children,” Joan went on, “he’d murmur something like, ‘There is nothing more becoming than righteous fury on a beautiful woman.’”
Maria raised a brow. “As my first act as the Mistress of the estate, I suggest calling Bobby, Frankie, and Elsa to report both the pestering romancing and the low quality of the means employed.”
Georg nodded solemnly. “A nice little firing squad for you, Max.”
Max, naturally, bowed. “May I at least request they shoot in key?”
“Now, if you’ll excuse us,” Georg said, reclaiming Maria’s hand, “we’d like to freshen up after the journey.”
They did freshen up — and then they made love for the first time on their bed: tenderly, deeply, giving in to Georg’s need to see her there as soon as possible.
“Welcome home, Baroness von Trapp,” he grinned afterwards.
“Welcome home, Captain von Trapp,” she grinned back.
The boys were the first to arrive, pedalling up from the Borromäum on their bicycles. From the study, Maria and Georg heard the clatter of wheels being parked and familiar voices echoing in the crisp evening air.
Georg made for the door with brisk purpose. Maria ran—and heard Elsa’s voice in her head, tutting disapprovingly at such unseemly haste. Georg, laughing, hurried to catch up.
They met on the driveway.
“YOU’RE BACK!” the boys shouted in unison, their faces alight.
“Beat you!” Kurt challenged, though Friedrich had clearly reached Maria first. He had grown again—a few centimetres, at least—and Maria nearly gasped as she hugged him tightly. Kurt looked momentarily put out, but the warmth of the reunion quickly dissolved any hint of disappointment.
It didn’t matter who reached whom first. What mattered was the complete, unreserved affection with which they all embraced her—and Georg too, even if less noisily. When they finally settled in the sitting room, it was Kurt who remained close to Maria on the divan, clearly revelling in the chance to call her Mother as often as he could.
Then came the sound of more voices and a rush of lighter steps.
When the girls began to arrive, the boys were the first to race to the door, once again shouting, “MOTHER AND FATHER ARE BACK!” The villa was soon filled with the flurry of skirts, ribbons, kisses, and tender squeezes—each child clinging for a moment, then giving way for the next.
Afterwards, it was time to hand out the presents from Paris. The children received them with delight, but more than the gifts, they seemed hungry to share their news.
“Friedrich has grown! Soon he’ll wear your clothes, Father!” Kurt said, ever tactful. Poor Friedrich turned beet red.
Friedrich didn’t miss a beat. “Kurt stole leftover cake and strudel after the wedding. He had stomach ache for three days.”
“I lost another tooth!” Gretl announced proudly, and was immediately rewarded with a kiss.
“I too,” added Martha, not to be outdone — and received the same.
“I failed a Latin text,” Louisa confessed with theatrical despair. “I need your help, Mother!”
“I hurt my ankle playing volleyball,” Brigitta reported, pointing to her foot as evidence.
Liesl simply asked, “How was the Louvre? And the Eiffel Tower? And the weather? I want to hear everything.”
And that was the moment, unmistakable and clear: they were home. Truly home.
Notes:
With this chapter, we have finished establishing the love between Maria and the children and, of course, that between Maria and Georg.
There will also be no more explicit-ish part, although there will be 100% mature moments.
Starting with the next chapter, the historical side of this fanfic novel will become progressively more evident.
Let me know what you thought so far, and invite history nerds to read this story! ;-)
Chapter 15: Their 1927 (Advent 1926 till spring 1927)
Summary:
The new family enjoys the Advent and the Christmas festivities: it’s a time for love and mischief, as usual.
With the new year, the first birthdays come: Friedrich, Louisa, and Liesl. But with them, the first parenting challenge arrives too, and politics knocks at the Trapps’ door for the first time—uninvited, unwanted, disrupting the peace of a romantic young lady.
This forces Georg and Maria to rethink their parenting style, and their decision will steer the family in the direction of opposing all brands of fascism despite their immense privilege, and of supporting several progressive claims. This also allows for the older children to make an important step towards their adulthood.
Then, other typical events for a family accompany our heroes until spring. What will the summer bring?
Notes:
Since I am currently “rendering” German in British English, some expression might sound anachronistic to some. However, I am trying to convey the force of German expletives, that were and are nothing like “the bloody Nazi”.
And yes: the story is picking up speed now. Some chapters will cover an entire year.
I have also decreased the frequency of updates, since I fear most people would not have the time to read. Always check if you have read the previous chapters, since many details and developments are essential.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As they had come home from their honeymoon in mid-November, Advent and Christmas would be coming soon, especially in a house with seven children—and especially in a house where the mother and the youngest girls had never experienced a ‘real’ Christmas.
Georg found himself thrilled to have not only seven overexcited children, but also an overexcited wife pulling out Christmas decorations and making plans to create or buy new ones.
Maria obviously was not ignoring the spiritual layer of it either.
“Oh, Georg! The entire liturgy of the Advent and Christmas resonates so differently now that I am a wife and mother, that I have a family. I used to read the Gospel and try to imagine what it meant to be entrusted with something so fragile and miraculous. But now… now I understand what it means to wait in hope, to carry love and worry in the same breath, to look into a child’s eyes and know that your life is no longer just your own.”
Georg wrapped her in his arms. “And of course, the prospect of decorating all together the entire house as you wish, while singing with the rest of the family or consuming one of your new records!”
But before decorating, the snow came, the first snow of the year. And snow, between seven lively children and two adults prone to acting like children during their spare time, could only mean one thing.
Snowball battle. A huge one.
Georg took his role as retired military man very seriously, and came up with intricate plans, but his base, manned by Friedrich, Louisa, and Martha, was taken by brute force by Maria, Kurt, Brigitta, Gretl and Liesl. An honourable mention went to Kurt and Brigitta for their idea of an assembly line for snowballs, inspired by both the idea of a factory assembly line and that of machine gun nests operated by at least two soldiers. The two worked well together, with Brigitta making new balls quickly and Kurt throwing them, seldom missing his target.
Maria commented later, as Georg was lying in the snow, theatrically acting like someone who had just been completely humiliated (which in part he was), “I suppose the fault is equally shared, again. I taught them about the relevance of assembly lines in shaping production; you gave them books about the war.”
“Well, Friedrich and Louisa have read some of them too; only it seems like Friedrich is more interested in uniforms and medals than in how weapons work, and both share an interest in the medical aspects.”
“Medical aspects?” Maria turned to watch Friedrich and Louisa, who looked rather cranky due to the defeat. “Well, you’ll be in charge of the mulled wine tonight. Medicinal duty.”
Unsurprisingly, the two children understood the joke.
A rematch was sorely needed, and therefore the children decided to unearth two old sleds from the attic, to even out the odds. They were memories from their years in Zell am See, and it was a nice moment to remember the Erlhof, Agathe and Gromi while checking together for damages.
Georg repaired the sleds, and then it was time to wait for another day of snowfall to build another layer and make the hills around the villa the perfect slope.
The only problem was that Friedrich and Louisa challenged Kurt and Brigitta to be able to stop before the railway line at the end of the estate… and for the first time, Maria became visibly and vocally worried about the children. Georg almost lost his control this time, but when he heard Maria saying, voice almost cracking, “You’re making it very hard for Agathe and me to keep you alive—from Heaven and from Earth,” and saw the children take her words to heart, he knew he didn’t need it. He talked about it with Maria, later, of course.
And when the Nikolaus came, the Krampus had his fun with the four rascals! Rumours said the Krampus had some experience whipping scoundrels on ships. Hans usually cleared his throat at hearing such suppositions…
Then came the decorations.
Georg was in charge of choosing the tree, and Maria chose the Advent wreath instead.
As usual, there was the problem of choosing something that would be appreciated by all seven children.
Some of the old decorations were resumed— and they shared other memories about Agathe, that prompted a prayer to remember her and the wish to build new memories together that shared the same spirit of love and harmony; then it was time to visit a Christmas market to buy new one, and to find new materials to craft a few personalised ones.
Although Maria had thought the children might get their hands glued to something, as it had almost happened with the dioramas, in the end, it was Georg who fell to his hybris.
“Wood glue is stronger than the one used for paper! It’s not my fault,” he grumbled, as Maria knelt beside him. A glass ornament, a half-finished wooden angel, and Georg’s index and middle fingers were now one entity. The children collapsed in laughter as Maria dabbed the solvent gently, muttering something about ‘hybris’ and ‘craft safety.’
Then there was the usual togetherness: sharing stories, singing, listening to a record, teasing each other, exchanging simple gestures of affection. All nine of them.
Practicing Stille Nacht and Adeste, Fideles was one of Maria’s fondest moments, together with the unexpected discovery that she could jump into Georg’s arms from the ladder and he would catch her—easily, without even staggering.
“I knew you would be my rock, darling,” she said.
“Decades of experience on shaking vessels, my dear.”
“So, not just dashing uniforms and a hero’s halo, hey?”
Liesl, who had come back for a forgotten book, stopped at the doorway. Their kiss in the candlelight was too beautiful a scene to interrupt—so she quietly tiptoed away.
Georg looked smug. The next time Maria jumped—this time in front of the children—he wobbled theatrically just to hear her shriek, then caught her with perfect timing.
The room burst into laughter.
“Father, you’re mean!” Martha giggled.
“Don’t give Mother a heart attack!” said Brigitta, half-concerned, half-amused.
“Next time I’m climbing that ladder,” Kurt declared.
“No one would catch you,” Friedrich muttered, but without real malice.
Maria scolded Georg between laughter and kisses, while Georg looked very pleased with himself.
Officially interested in visiting the family and Salzburg’s Christmas market as well as visiting the Mayr-Meinhof family together to socialise and to buy some wine and venison from their estate, Elsa and Yvonne appeared on a Thursday afternoon in all of their splendour. Their real goal was a good chat with Maria featuring gossips, of course, as well as some planning for future meetings.
Yvonne greeted the couple with unrestrained glee; Elsa with poised but manifest affection, as it was typical of their personalities.
Of course, Yvonne could not keep the appearance of propriety for more than a few instants in front of the glowing couple. “Oh, how incredible you look! Georg, you look younger, and Maria, you are radiant! The power of love…”
“Yes, you look happy,” cut in Elsa, throwing darts at Yvonne. If she didn’t, Yvonne would definitely wax poetic about the couple, hoping to learn details that were better left to the couple’s privacy.
Therefore, as soon as the three women sat in the best sitting room, it was Elsa who began, “Maria, now tell me how you found Paris! I am so sorry we didn’t have the opportunity to introduce you to some of my friends there; you would have enjoyed spending some evening with them.”
“Elsa, you are very kind, but between the sightseeing, our private plans, and Hede, we truly had enough to do. Even though we stayed over a month.”
“Max is considering finding his own accommodation for the next Salzburg Festival. I think your children must have really exhausted him, if he is considering such an attack to his patrimonial status.”
“Even worse than his third-rate romancing of Joan, already a clear sign of an upcoming breakdown.”
“Bobby and Frankie have threatened to introduce him to some of their toughest factory workers in Fiume if he does begin again. Just in case.”
Yvonne jumped in. “Oh, dear, I wished I stayed here, too. It must have been… very entertaining. Although, if I were Joan, I would consider it and make him sweat a little. I would love to see his face if she ever took him seriously. And even if… Rakes make good lovers, or so they say…”
“Yvonne!”
“I am sorry, Elsa. We were saying, Maria, you had enough to do, and?”
“Oh, yes, we even saw a cabaret at the Moulin Rouge and that dancer, Josephine Baker.”
Elsa’s heartbeat stopped for a few seconds. Yvonne wanted to know more about it, but Elsa asked, as an anticipated Christmas present, to stick to museums, Hede, and fashion.
Then it was time for the best gossip from Vienna, with all the scandals. Maria and Georg were not featured, apparently: Elsa had her own copies of the photos taken outside the church, and the wedding dress did what it was chosen for.
“But since you are coming to Vienna for New Year’s Day with the rest of the family, there will be further occasions to keep all the envious women in line.”
“Speaking of New Year and Vienna,” Maria interjected, “A small something from Paris,” she said, with a note of mischief. “And a proper thank you for being my advisors—and my friends.”
Elsa’s eyebrows lifted slightly as she untied the satin ribbon and unfolded the delicate tissue paper. Inside lay a slim, sleek clutch of midnight blue silk, embroidered with a subtle Art Deco fan motif.
“From Paul Poiret’s boutique,” Maria said quietly. “I hoped it would suit you.”
Elsa gave a rare, approving nod. “Understated. Elegant. Timeless. Like me.”
Yvonne laughed, already examining hers—a clutch in deep plum velvet, with a glinting clasp shaped like a lily. “Oh, Maria, this is divine. The only problem is that it makes most of my dresses look poor by comparison!”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Maria chuckled.
“And as an excuse to go shopping together soon,” glossed Elsa.
They would spend Christmas in Salzburg, to join the Whiteheads and the Auerspergs at their townhouse in Vienna for the New Year’s festivities. This would make room for a visit with Gromi as well as for some more societal tasks (and some time alone) for the couple.
On Christmas Eve, Maria and Georg managed to convince the children to open their presents after the Mass, and then it was chaos: then chaos broke loose: excited shrieks, the crinkle of wrapping paper, the scent of wax and pine, and Kurt accidentally knocking over a candle with sheer enthusiasm (fortunately extinguished by a heroic Brigitta).
The kids were sprawled around, admiring their haul: wooden and tin toys, colours, books, a doll for Gretl.
Maria and Georg sat close on the divan, holding hands and sharing a quiet smile, basking in their first Christmas as a family.
“Thank you for the oiled overcoats for the entire family, Georg.” Maria was still giggling at his idea of a present. But after all, she had done the same.
“Thank you for the new swimming suit ‘fit for a champion’. I sense that there is going to be a rematch of our Wallersee challenge soon. Either that, or you enjoy looking at me wearing a more sportive suit.”
Maria scoffed mockingly, and leaned her head on his shoulder. Georg threw an arm over the back of the divan, embracing her, then picked up his wine glass.
Then Gretl, clutching her new doll, piped up, shattering the peace.
“Mother, Father, I love my doll, but do you think I could get a real baby too? Maybe for Easter? I’d be such a good big sister!” Her voice was all sugary earnestness, eyes wide: she knew she could count on her endearing cuteness with pretty much everyone in the family. She added, clutching her doll, “I’d share everything with them!”—oblivious to the bomb she had dropped.
The couple was immediately flustered: Georg choked on his wine. Maria sat bolt upright, colour rising like a thermometer. What could they possibly tell little Gretl or any of their children? We enjoy a very passionate relationship, so we are sure there will be news to share as soon as the Lord sees fit to send us a baby?
Probably the bit about the Lord sending babies was their best bet.
Dear, sweet, saint-like Liesl gasped—hands flying to her mouth—then stifled a giggle, saying “Oh, Gretl, you’re too sweet,” trying for maturity, but with her eyes darting to Maria and Georg, drinking in the romance of their blushes. On the other hand, Friedrich first coughed suspiciously into his sleeve, whereas Louisa tried to look innocent and failed spectacularly. Soon the two were snickering, whispering heaven knew what between them.
Georg decided to be gallant, and start with the explanation. “When the Lord decides it’s time, there will be a new Trapp, Gretl.” Maria added, “Just be patient, darling. You know you will have to share your father and me with yet another sibling, when it happens?”
Then Georg, tired of the two misbehaving ones, said, “Friedrich, Louisa, you will stop the snickering and whispering immediately.” Maria, who was rather disappointed by the two herself, but accepted that it was a sign of their age —too old to be endearingly innocent, too young to have that hint of decorum needed—added: “Or you could share with us your thoughts. I am sure we would find them very entertaining, too. No? Then don’t say things you would never say in front of us all, thank you!”
Kurt had his own priority. “Please, let it be a boy! We are outnumbered!”
Brigitta sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous—it doesn’t work like picking a puppy or a kitten. Honestly, you’re hopeless.”
Martha was rather neutral about it. “Will a new baby be able to play with us soon? Can I teach him or her?”
“It will take some time, darling, but you can teach him or her anything you want as soon as the time is right. Anyway, so far, there is no baby coming.” Maria exchanged a look of understanding with Georg. “Just as we had to wait for Christ to be born, we need to wait for a new Trapp.” Then, turning to Gretl and kneeling by her, “You’re already the best little sister, darling. Let’s enjoy this Christmas first, hmm?”
Gretl scoffed a little, but seemed to accept the fact.
Later, Georg remarked, “I fear like Gretl is going to be as spirited and clever as Kurt and Louisa combined.”
“At least they all have a good heart, darling. And they listen to us, in the end. I am sure they will all grow up to be fine people. Especially as we continue keeping in mind the Commandment of love that the Gospel gives us.”
New Year with the family in Vienna was another moment of unity. All the Whiteheads, the Trapps, and the Auerspergs were able to celebrate New Year’s Eve. Gromi appreciated the intimate moment of prayer that Maria suggested they share to say thanks and also to remember Agathe, before the more hedonistic celebration began in the Auerspergs’ ball room. Crystal chandeliers shimmered like icicles; the band’s waltz echoed off gilded mirrors, and for one night, the children’s laughter joined the clinking of champagne glasses and the rustle of silk gowns.
It was difficult to send the children to bed at an appropriate time, though. Notably, Georg was convinced by Maria, Bobby, and Frank (not to mention by an indirect piece of advice by Elsa and Max) to let Liesl stay up until midnight and sip a little bit of champagne. This made her giddy enough to try looking effortlessly sophisticated and failing adorably. What made her equally giddy was seeing her father and mother share their midnight kiss, the right compromise between appropriate and intimate.
Liesl watched, cheeks rosy, eyes wide. The kiss between her parents lit a spark of something deep inside her—a hope that one day, she'd have a love like that. Would she ever feel that sure about someone? Would she be kissing her husband like that in the following years? She hoped so.
To crown her evening, she even danced with her father and her uncles, then was sent to bed.
When the dancing had began to wind down, Georg, seeing Maria standing still, a champagne flute in her hand, wrapped her in his arms from behind.
“What are you thinking about?”
“It will be our first year that we will spend together.” She leaned into him.
“It will also soon be a year since we have met. 10 April,” he murmured against her temple.
“I… guess we could celebrate it if we concentrate on the good that came from that day and not on how I felt about you by that evening.”
“You are never going to stop joking about it, I suppose.”
“Oh, Georg, if we are going to spend decades together, we need to keep each other entertained by any means necessary. Sport challenges aren’t enough.”
His throaty laugh resonating against her back made her shiver.
The beginning of the New Year let some time for a few society meetings, including a toast with Elsa, Max, and Yvonne, and a few romantic moments for the couple alone, almost as if they were back on their honeymoon, but with the added benefit for Georg of showing off his wife in the capital—as he loved saying.
There was also Friedrich’s fifteenth birthday, on the 3rd January. Louisa was a little envious that he got to celebrate it with their extended family—hers would be on the 15th, and that meant celebrating back in Salzburg—, but in the end, the celebration was another moment of joy for the family.
Maria and Georg wanted to be sure that Friedrich knew how much they were proud of him, of how he sometimes showed a sensibility that set him apart from the others (despite all the shenanigans, but the couple knew there was no chance of him skipping that part—he from experience, she from her former profession).
Maria went first. “I want you to know what a joy it is to call you ‘my son’, and to thank you for allowing me to do so.” Friedrich, always a little reserved, managed a slightly overwhelmed smile as Maria brushed his hair back. “You are an affectionate boy who is curious and sensitive. And even when you drive us mad when you conspire with your siblings, I know you will grow up to be a wonderful man.”
Georg added, “And always remember that we are here for you. Agathe from Heaven, Maria and I here, with you. Talk to us anytime.” To balance the sentimentality, he glossed, “I am saying this despite your constant attempts at causing damage and creating risks to your life as well as to that of most of your siblings.”
Friedrich rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tugged upwards, then simply hugged them, in silence at first, then adding, “Mother has already told me there is no age-related ban on hugs,” and war hero Georg tightened his hold on his oldest boy with a smile.
Two weeks later, Maria repeated her words to Louisa. The girl, now fourteen, sometimes seemed more detached than the others, and was definitely not going to be a stereotypical proper lady as Liesl was. Maria knew, though, that Louisa had long resented her father for how he had become distant. So, she knew she needed to hear their words too. “I love you as if you were mine, Louisa. And always remember that your cleverness will bring you further in life, and I will be here to help you find your way in this world. Even if it is studying spiders,” she added for lightness.
“Oh, Mother, now I think animals are far more fascinating!”
“As long as you don’t fill the house with snakes…”
Louisa noticed the tears gathering in Maria’s eyes, despite the joke, though.
“Oh, Mother… you’re not going to cry, are you?”
Maria gave a laugh that was halfway to a sniffle. “Only if you keep being such a dear.”
Georg kissed the top of her head before pulling her close, and murmured, “Thank you for forgiving me!”.
“Just in time to avoid finding your room filled with spiders and snakes!” But she let herself be pulled into her father’s embrace, as she used to do as a small girl in Zell am See.
But not every birthday was meant to be this simple.
On the 11th of February, the family celebrated Liesl’s seventeenth birthday. Amid the laughter and dancing, Maria’s head already rang with Elsa’s declaration: “It’s time to start planning her debut!”
Later that evening, Georg and Maria invited Liesl to the study for a quiet talk.
“If we do throw you a coming-out ball for your eighteenth,” Georg began, “you’ll miss the Officers’ Ball at the beginning of the next year, since it is traditionally held in January, but Elsa says that’s not a tragedy.”
“You’ve still got school,” Maria added, smiling. “And we’re not in Vienna, after all. That gives you time to ease in—to enjoy society, rather than feel on display. You will go to the ball next year.”
It might have seemed the end of it and the beginning of a relaxed year for the family to accompany the girl to one of the first steps of womanhood. Alas, that peaceful year was not to be. It marked the beginning of the first real adjustment the family would have to face.
As Maria had long feared, the seemingly forgotten young postman, Rolf, had continued his romancing of Liesl.
Truth be told, Maria would have preferred to have her suspicion confirmed in the course of a long overdue mother-daughter talk rather than have Liesl simply announcing, after months of silence on the topic, “Father, there is someone whom I would like to introduce to you, and he would like to talk to you as soon as possible.”
At the dinner table, nonetheless, of all places.
Forks paused mid-air. Maria nearly dropped her glass. Georg blinked once—slowly.
He then looked at Maria, whose stunned expression seemed to confirm she knew nothing. For once, he was right: she had been genuinely caught off guard, and perhaps even a little disappointed. So, it hadn’t been just a schoolgirl crush. She wished she’d asked sooner.
The couple spoke after the children were in bed. Maria admitted what she recalled about the boy—Rolf Gruber, the postman who had lingered too long in the garden, and in Liesl’s thoughts.
“She told you in confidence when you were still her governess. And when you couldn’t stand me.” Georg’s smile was wry. “You probably forgot all about it by the time we married. I don’t blame you.”
“I didn’t forget,” Maria said quietly. “But I hoped it was just a phase.”
Georg exhaled. “Well. I’m still not a supporter of strangers kissing my daughter on the roads of Aigen or even in our garden. But that is going to be sorted out soon.”
“He’s not a complete stranger. He’s been delivering post here for over a year. He’ll be nineteen soon.”
“Don’t make me regret not arguing with you,” Georg said, half-teasing.
“Look, I’m not calling for exile,” Maria replied. “But I do think seventeen is too young to be planning a life. Liesl should be figuring out what she wants before committing to someone else’s path.”
Georg sat back. “You know, in our world it’s not unusual to marry young. Especially for women.”
“The world is changing, Georg. I know Agathe was eighteen. Liesl showed me your photos after first telling me about Rolf. She said it with pride: ‘They were twenty-two and eighteen when they married.’ That’s when I knew I had to worry. She sees you two as a model—and that’s sweet, but also... premature.” Then she added, “She did promise it would only be strolling and kissing, at the time…” trying to soften it.
Georg arched an eyebrow, the And we know all about strolling and kissing kind of look.
“The problem is,” Georg said slowly, “I know I’m a jealous man. Of you. Of my daughters. But I always knew someone would come for them. So, in some way, I was prepared for her request, although maybe not so soon. And now I’m torn. Do I lay down a rule—no marriage before 21, when the law sets them free? Or do I honour the way we used to do things, even if society is shifting?”
“We need to talk to her about all of it. Your objections, my fears, and also the possible good.”
Later that evening, as the house settled into calm, Georg and Maria invited Liesl into the study. She followed with curiosity—and a touch of nervousness.
The couple invited Liesl to sit between them, trying to conveying their affection rather than their worry. “We just would like to talk to you before we talk to your young man. You are our daughter, and you are our priority.”
Georg went first, trying to sound serious but not judgmental. “Liesl, I understand you care for this… Rolf, and I’m not saying that’s wrong. But I have to ask: have you thought about what it would mean to marry him? Can you accept leaving behind the life you’ve known? I’m not just talking about the grand things—I'm talking about the basics. Can you adjust to budgeting, to managing what you have, keeping track of expenses? Can you manage a household without a staff to do everything for you? Can you live with less, live in a way that doesn’t come with the luxury you’re used to?”
He paused after that, as if weighing how to phrase this next part.
“It’s not just about adjusting to a different social class, it’s about practicality. Can you accept that? Can you handle not having everything handed to you? That’s what marriage means when the circumstances are different. It’s not just about love, it’s about real, everyday decisions. And I want you to understand that fully before making any big decisions.”
Maria nodded and added her perspective:
“Georg is right, Liesl. It’s not just about social status. I’m sure you’ve never had to worry about things like keeping track of what you can spend. It’s a big change. One you need to think about carefully.”
She softened as she spoke, giving Liesl the space to absorb what they were saying.
Georg reprised. “I’m not saying you can’t love him or marry him. But I want you to think about what that life would look like: without the luxuries, without the comfort of this house, without the staff. Would you be able to handle that?”
Liesl had been prepared to that objection, and was not surprised to hear it. Not from her father, born privileged and then raised to fabulous wealth through career and marriage. Not from her new mother, who had to count every cent until she entered the von Trapp household.
“I knew you would say that. And I know that love will give me the strength to bear with what my new life might entail. Besides, Rolf is advancing steadily in his career, he is saving, and—forgive me for my bluntness—I am also bringing with me my dowry, which should offer us some additional security. I am sure we can build a nice life for us.”
Georg was still very worried. “Please promise that you will keep this in mind, and that if you ever change your mind before it’s too late, you will act accordingly. We want you to be happy in your marriage, not suffering because of the burden put on you by a change in circumstances.”
He exchanged a nod of understanding with Maria, who then continued.
“Another thing, and this is my main concern. I understand that you have feelings for Rolf, but I want you to really think about this. Is it truly necessary to marry right after school? There’s so much more you could do. You could study, travel, learn, or just take some time to think... so many things you’d miss out on if you settle down too soon.”
She paused, looking at Georg before continuing with warmth and thoughtfulness.
“I know love is important, and we would hypocrites if we denied that love makes for a huge part of it, but marrying should be based on more than just passion. It’s a partnership that requires understanding, and there’s so much more you both need to know about each other, about life. Are you sure this is enough? Are you really ready for this? To marry at eighteen and twenty respectively?”
Georg supported her, after a pause, looking at her. “Exactly. You may love each other, Liesl, but love isn’t everything. Do you really know each other well enough to face all that comes with marriage? The everyday things, the difficulties, the decisions that go beyond the excitement of the first months?” He softened his tone as he looked directly at her. “We just want to make sure you’re not rushing into something that might be too much too soon.”
Maria added what was her most important bit, and hoped it would be understood.
“Liesl, love, I’m not saying you can’t marry after school. I’m just asking you to think about this: during the war, women began working in factories. Some even started wearing trousers when it was more practical. That alone changed the way we dress—changed what people thought women could do.
Your mother Agathe was sent to a finishing school before the war. That was it, because that was all that was expected, even all that was possible, in most cases. But now? Women—at least the lucky ones—are studying, training for careers, even going to university, even if it’s not easy.
Have you ever thought about that? That you could study after school? That you could choose?”
Maria noticed how Liesl was struck at the mention of Agathe. She sometimes was so detached from the reality of their world, almost living in a slightly more sophisticated version of the pre-war era.
“I never really thought of that. But surely, if you meet the love of your life, you are going to choose him over anything else? Isn’t that what a marriage is, after all? Choosing your spouse over anyone and anything else?”
Maria had it rather difficult now. “And how would you know he is the love of your life if you haven’t even explored life? I had time, you know. Time to study, to hike, to sing, to be with friends. Time to pray and to think, really think, before choosing my path. Between entering the convent and saying yes to your father, I had months of soul-searching. And so did your father.
If we hadn’t, your father might’ve ended up like that Fitzwilliam Darcy from that novel you like so much: rejected by a furious Elizabeth the first time he proposed.
Come to think of it, she even has your name.”
Liesl smiled.
Maria added gently, “Agathe was lucky. She married your father. Not every man is like him. Some are not worthy of that kind of trust and love.
I’m not saying no. I’m not forbidding anything. I’m saying: wait, just long enough to know for sure. Think about all this, not just about Rolf. Because this is your life. And not every woman gets the chance to really choose hers.”
Georg admitted quietly, almost surprised: “I never thought about it like that.
I was raised to believe daughters needed protection—and marriage was the safest, most respectable path.
I never questioned it, really. I never even opposed other views on it—I stood by Hede, after all, and lost a friend for it. But not until this conversation have I really rationalised it.”
He turned half-smiling to Maria, then. “I am all right with it, you know. If they studied. If they found their own way.”
Maria reassured him, softly: “I know you would. That’s why you’re the man I chose.”
Liesl reacted as any young idealistic person who was faced with a sudden serving of realism. She thought about it a little, and then said: “I promise I will think about all you have said. But right now, I know he proposed to me, and I know I said yes because it’s the only answer I could give him. He said he will be proud to have an educated wife; he said educated women raise intelligent and educated children, who are the future of the country. I will be finishing the lyceum, after all. As you said, my mother Agathe didn’t attend a lyceum.
So, please, I ask you to receive him. Knowing that there is still time. But also knowing that I choose him.”
Georg's face grew serious. "Liesl, please understand this. Even if I meet this young man of yours, I still have the right to say no to your marriage until you're twenty-one. And if anything gives me reason to believe he's not right for you, I will use that right without hesitation. It's not because I want to control you, but because my greatest wish is to keep you safe until you're ready."
Liesl sighed. “I know. I guess we will both work hard to show you that you can give your permission.”
And with that, Rolf Gruber was officially invited to discuss with Captain von Trapp the future of his oldest daughter. The meeting would take place a few days later.
Georg, torn between the old world and the new one, which he didn’t oppose as such (monarchist question aside), but which he still had to understand completely, thought long about it, and then came to a decision.
“Maria, I want you to be present, too.”
Maria had imagined that even for a rather liberal monarchist like Georg, the idea of having her present would have been too much, and was now taken by surprise.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes, darling. I thought that Liesl does take after me, and was influenced by you, too—willingly, I’d say. I know she feels more of a kinship with Agathe right now—ladylike behaviour, debut, marriage proposal and all—, but she is not Agathe.”
Gromi’s words about her daughter resounded in Maria’s head.
Georg finished his explanation. “This young man must be prepared to deal with a woman with a personality, a woman who will want to be treated as an equal. If he objects to you being there, we will have a little bit of a measure of who he is and whether I can give her permission to marry or not.”
Which is how the couple ended up in Georg’s study with the young, handsome postman, who entered the room accompanied by Franz, straight-backed, proud, a rehearsed air of pride stiffening his shoulders. Rolf Gruber’s gaze flickered towards Maria for a fleeting instant before he extended a hand to Georg. Georg's grip was firm, his eyes assessing.
“Rolf Gruber, at your pleasure, Captain,” his tone a touch too formal for his age.
“Georg von Trapp. And this,” he turned, a possessive hand briefly touching Maria’s arm, “is my wife, Maria, my partner in everything.”
The young man bowed to Maria, a swift dip of his head. “Pleasure, Baroness.” His gaze snapped back to Georg. Invited to sit, he launched into his prepared speech. “Captain von Trapp, thank you for seeing me. I wanted to speak with you officially. I would like to ask for Elisabeth’s hand in marriage. Not immediately, of course. After she finishes school. I believe in doing things properly.”
At first, Georg uttered a polite, neutral “I see.” Then he looked at the young man: well-dressed, no doubt, but not enough to fool him.
His second reply lacked any warmth. “And what sort of life do you propose to offer her?”
“I am advancing steadily in the postal service, and will soon take on office duties only. More responsibilities, but also a better pay. I am already independent, of course, and I will be able to take a wife after over a year of clerk duties, as well as to occasionally hire some help.”
“You realise, of course, that my daughter comes from a very different sphere, and was not trained to do any domestic chores? She is also used to a certain standard of life. She assures me she will take on the challenge and will adapt, for you, but I would like to remember that you will have to let her adapt, in the beginning, if, and I repeat, if the wedding takes place. Is that clear?”
Upon hearing that, Maria was suddenly remembered of Georg’s orders to the children in the beginning. But this one was even more authentic. This was the real Korvettenkapitän speaking, the one only his men in the Navy had witnessed.
“I am aware of it, Captain. As I am sure Elisabeth must have told you, I am thrilled to marry an educated woman, who will raise intelligent and educated children. I will not lie to you: her beauty and her sweet, romantic nature were what first drew me to her…”
A muscle twitched in Georg's jaw as Rolf mentioned Liesl's beauty. Maria had to stifle a laugh. Well, he had to better get used to it: they already had five daughters, and all of them seemed blessed by beauty (as the boys were, after all). They would all be noticed, sooner or later.
Rolf continued… “but her intelligence is what made me see in her the future mother of my children.”
Maria wished the young man were less verbose, especially when it came to topics a father of girls usually does not wish to linger on. Georg was clearly painting a series of scenarios in his head about the young couple’s courting, and that was not helping the young man’s quest.
Rolf still went on. “I believe in duty, tradition, and doing things the right way, sir. Elisabeth is a fine young woman, and I believe she will be an ideal wife, cultured, respectful, supportive. We will both serve Austria in our own ways, a thing that you will come to appreciate, I am sure. The country is changing, sir. There’s a sense of direction now. Of discipline. The old ways are falling behind, but people like us—we can be part of something cleaner, stronger.”
What was going on here? Was Rolf trying to flatter Georg?
Well, Georg was fully in his officer mode—straight and proud, commanding, strategizing. “You say the country is changing. Tell me, what sort of change do you hope for? And how do you see my daughter fitting into that vision?”
Rolf expanded on what he had said. “The future of our nation lies in the hands of young people like Elisabeth and myself, and then of our children, the children of our generation. Elisabeth has the right spirit, you know. Not every woman does these days. We have many plans, Captain. I am working with Herr Zeller, on youth and community affairs….”
Georg’s neck tensed, his head shooting up, and so did Maria’s neck, turning abruptly towards Rolf.
“…It’s an exciting time, really. We are preparing for a better Austria. We are now officially moving from the Pan-German Party to the newly founded German National Socialist Party of Austria, the Hitler movement. I’ve even met the Führer, both in Passau and Munich. His vision for what we, as youth, can do for all the German-speaking population, is simply inspiring. Education, physical education, hope, fraternity, hard work, loyalty. Rebuilding the nation that was destroyed by the Allies.”
Maria thought she would either witness a murder soon, or become a murderer herself. She gripped the armrests very tightly.
Georg stared at the young man in silence for a few, long instants. One could hear the clock ticking, and the heavy breathing of all the occupants of the room.
He then let out a single exhale through his nose before speaking in his dark voice, the one she had heard the day she had told him of his uncle.
“You’ve met Hitler. Adolf Hitler.”
Rolf was beaming. “Yes. He has great ideas. Discipline. National pride. Real values. And I will never forget his proud look and his strong, affectionate handshake when I was able to talk to him about what I have been doing with Herr Zeller here in Salzburg, and about my projects for the future with Elisabeth. And that’s why this is the right moment. Liesl… Elisabeth can start her life alongside me. We’ll grow together. We’ll be part of history.”
Georg’s voice was cold, low, terrifying, and Maria wouldn’t have had it any other way. “You have spoken to Adolf Hitler about your plans of marrying my daughter? And have you spoken to my daughter about your plans with Adolf Hitler and his charming rabble?”
“Of course. I told her that I know that you are a more traditional patriot, attached to Austria. But you surely understand that men like Hitler offer a vision for our future to us, young people. And you also are aware that there is bound to be some friction between generations. There is nothing wrong with you feeling nostalgic towards what was undoubtedly the greatest German-speaking empire so far. But now it is our time to rebuild a Reich. And this time, no one will stop us, Captain. One of your grandchildren might become one of our admirals, and honour his illustrious grandfather.”
Both Georg and Maria thought Only strolling and kissing? The cad had been priming Liesl for the German National Socialist Party by leveraging all the good in her and in her family history!
Georg was clearly having difficulties to breathe, so Maria came to his support, her rage threatening to explode if she didn’t do something. Even her voice was lower and colder than usual.
“Did you also tell Liesl how both the Pan-German Party and NSDAP consider Jews ‘not human’? Did you tell her that formations tied to both parties have attacked Jews and political adversaries, from brawls at universities to malicious and planned attacks? Did you tell her that you consider all non-German speaking people inferior? Did you tell her, who is a polyglot and an Italian citizen? Did you tell her what you think of democracy?”
Georg took courage. “Did you tell her what you think of Slavic populations, too, when her father served with people of Slavic heritage, and still considers some of them as friends? Did you tell her that you intend to measure the purity of people, and that her children will be sacrificed to your Führer’s so-called values?”
Despite all, Rolf was still self-righteous, if a little uncomfortable. “Sir, when a man courts a woman such as your daughter, he speaks of hopes and projects. That the enemies of our projects must be destroyed— that is only a consequence of our hopes and projects. Elisabeth will understand in due time. Anyway, I never considered bringing you, from another generation, over to our side. I came because I love Elisabeth. I want to make a respectable life.”
Georg’s voice cut like glass. “Then find a respectable ideology. And until then, stay away from my daughter.”
Rolf had the gall to answer, sharply, “You can’t protect her forever.”
“I can protect her today. Get out. Never darken our door again.”
The young man bowed in silence, and hurried out of the study.
The couple’s rage was equally burning, but if Georg was more used to pondering how to canalise his rage, Maria wasn’t, and she exploded first, standing up and letting all of her unfiltered thoughts out.
“The fucking bastard! When she told me he was very romantic, I hoped he would wax poetry about her inner and outer beauty, not seduce her mind with manufactured dreams from National Socialist propaganda! This is a disaster!”
Georg regarded her in a rather strange way, still seething from the young man’s cheek. Then stood up, started pacing in circles and emitted his sentence, icy control in his voice as opposed to his wife’s passionate wrath.
“I swear I have never been so proud of having a wife raised in the mountains and in Ottakring. Any poised reaction to what just happened would have made me even more furious.” He turned to her, and softened slightly. “Yes, he is a fucking bastard, and now we have to break Liesl’s heart because of him.”
“And she will blame us for it, you know.” Maria started pacing across the room too.
“That is part of being a parent, Maria. Sometimes, we have to make unpleasant choices, and the children will resent us for them.”
The couple would have gladly discussed the issue further, but Liesl had seen Rolf exiting the villa from her window, and had rushed to the ground floor.
She entered the study without even knocking, glowing with a mix of nerves and anticipation. She took in her father standing stiffly in the centre of the room, arms crossed, and her mother pacing like a lioness, arms folded tight, eyes burning.
Liesl was a little confused, but then she asked, her voice bright and breathless, “Was that Rolf? Did he… did he talk to you?”
She was met with silence. Her father looked at her, unreadable. Her mother turned slowly, face stormy.
More hesitantly, Liesl reprised. “He said he would. That he wanted to be honest. He told me... he told me he was ready for the next step. To tell you everything. That’s good, isn’t it?”
Maria shot sharply: “No. Liesl, it’s not good.”
Confusion appeared on the girl’s face. “What—? Why? What happened?”
Georg enunciated slowly, quiet, grave: “He told us everything, yes. Enough to understand what he's been feeding you. Enough to see what he believes in. And whom he serves.”
Liesl frowned. Rolf had warned her there might be some misunderstanding between generations.
“He’s passionate. He has ideals. He believes in making something better out of this country. He is no different than you, Father.”
Maria snapped.
“He believes in control. In violence. In war and obedience masked as love. Is that what you want from a partner?”
Liesl was now defensive, flustered. “That’s not fair. You’re twisting everything. He speaks about unity. About honour. You only see the bad because you want to. But he told me you might. He told me that people from other generations often continue to see things through their own lens, and don’t understand young generations.”
Georg intervened, still icy cold. “This is mostly my fault. You have always heard from me, from other friends, from your mother Agathe about patriotism. About my courage. About my deeds in the war. But I never explained any of it, really. And I never thought that we must start introducing you to politics, as you grow up and become adults. I should have taught you the difference between patriotism and nationalism at least, as well as those between fighting to protect the ones you love and waging war to conquer.”
Maria agreed: “That is a conversation that we must start with the other children, too, as soon as we see the need. I remember Friedrich and Kurt telling me about older students trying to teach them politically charged songs. And Friedrich asked us about the pan-German option in the summer.”
Liesl was even more confused, and nervous. “What is this all about? Rolf came to ask for permission to marry me, because he loves me. That’s all you need to know! The rest is for us to sort out. What is Friedrich’s curiosity to me? He is only fifteen!”
Maria had to control herself. Luckily, Georg had a reply ready. “Rolf didn't come to speak as a man. He came as a Party man. With Party words and Party demands.”
Liesl rose her voice. “He came because he loves me!”
Maria felt it personally. “He came because he wants you, Liesl. Not as a woman, but as a symbol. You, the beautiful daughter of a naval hero, aristocratic, educated, German-speaking, German name: what better trophy for a young National Socialist militant who wants to show the world he’s arrived?”
Liesl blinked twice, and then stared at her as if slapped. She said in a low tone, “That’s a lie.”
It was time for the coldness of a naval officer poised to hit his objective. Georg didn’t miss. “He said— and I quote—that 'the enemies of our projects must be destroyed'. That you would understand it in due time.”
Liesl took a step back, shaken. Her voice trembles now. “No. He didn’t mean—he couldn’t have meant it like that. He talks about cleaning up corruption, giving hope to—"
Maria interjected, “—to whom? To some, yes. And what happens to the rest? To the ones not in uniform, not on the list of the ‘right’ people? Liesl, your mother was half English. You were born and raised among different cultures. You know what it’s like to live between two or three cultures. What if they one day decide you don’t belong? What if they one day decide someone you love does not belong?”
Liesl shook her head, no longer confident. “He never talked like that to me. He said... he said people don’t understand him, but he’s trying to do good.”
Another shot by Georg. “He said I couldn’t protect you forever. That was his parting threat.”
Liesl was now furious. Her fists waved in the air, and one of her feet stomped. “You twist everything! You hated him from the start! Just because he’s not like you! You think only your kind of love is real!”
Maria looked stunned. Georg blinked. And Liesl pressed on, angrier and bitterer now because of how her father’s words hurt her.
“Just because you’re older and married doesn’t mean you own romance! You don’t get to say who’s allowed to love me!” She crossed her arms, fighting tears, defensive and proud.
Maria felt badly for her, for her poor romantic heart. In a more poised tone, and with all the sympathy she could convey, she explained: “No, Liesl. We don’t own romance. But we do recognise when it’s being used to poison someone’s mind. He sold you a dream, and omitted many details about what he and his comrades actually do or plan to do.”
Liesl faltered, her strength draining from her, and the truth started seeping in. The couple could see it on her face, in how she started trembling, in her long silence.
Finally, she sank onto the nearest chair, looking suddenly much younger, almost like Martha or Gretl when they just wanted to cuddle in their arms. She stared at her hand, and then whispered: “I thought I saw something in him. I thought he believed in me.”
Maria chimed in. “He believed you could be useful.”
Liesl’s voice almost broke. “So, he never loved me?”
Maria approached her, softening, but still firm, not sure their convincing was over. “Sweetheart, even if he thought he did, love isn’t about filling someone’s head with lies. It isn’t about making you smaller, or angrier, or more obedient. It’s about freedom. Kindness. Growth.”
Liesl’s tears started falling, silent. She didn’t sob, but her world had clearly shifted. She looked up, eyes red. “And you’re saying… I can’t see him again.”
She glanced at the door, half-expecting him to burst in and say it was all a misunderstanding. That he’d lied to her parents out of fear, not malice. That he’d explain. But there was only silence, and her breath caught.
Georg issued his command. “I’m saying you won’t.”
But he was still a father—her father. He knelt beside her now—his voice gentler, but no less certain. “I want you to live in a country where you can walk the streets as yourself, not as someone’s political doll. You are strong, and clever, and you love deeply. That’s exactly what they prey on. And that’s why we won’t let him near you again.”
There was a pause before she finally nodded. Once. Twice.
Maria added, “And that’s why things will have to change in this family. No more keeping you in the dark as long as possible when it comes to current issues. As soon as we notice you are maturing and might fell prey to some of those people, we will start involving you in discussions.”
Liesl’s last word was a broken “All right” before she fell to her knees and crumpled, sobbing desperately, with her hands covering her face.
Georg’s and Maria’s hearts broke too, for her. He especially understood heartbreak, and he also felt partially responsible for failing to protect her. He threw his arms around her, for what was possible in that position, and murmured, “My dear girl, I am so sorry… I am so sorry…”
Maria joined them, brushing Liesl’s head, softly at first, then cradling it gently against her. She didn’t say anything. She knew too well that no words would ease this kind of pain—the pain of waking up from a beautiful dream and finding the world colder, harder than before.
Liesl tried one last desperate act amidst her tears.
“Please,” she whispered. “Can I just… talk to him? One last time?”
Maria flinched. Georg didn’t move.
“No,” he said quietly. “It would only hurt you more.”
Liesl’s breath hitched in great, raw sobs. Her shoulders shook violently in Georg’s arms. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and said, voice low and rough, “You are not alone. We are here. Even if you hate us.”
That made her cry harder, but something in her relaxed—a tension unclenching.
Maria looked at Georg and, without words, he understood. She wasn't her birth mother, no, but she had loved this girl long before she became her daughter. Maybe she had always been waiting for a moment like this, to prove it.
Maria held her close and whispered, “You don’t have to forgive us now. You just have to breathe.”
Liesl didn’t speak again. Her fingers clutched at Georg’s sleeve, her other hand fisting the fabric of Maria’s dress, as if trying to hold onto something real, anything solid. For a while, the study was quiet: only the sound of her weeping filled it, slow and steady, like a storm finally breaking.
And when her sobs subsided into trembling silence, Maria slowly rocked her, the way she had once rocked Gretl and Martha to sleep. Georg stayed kneeling, arms still around them both.
Dinner was quiet that evening. No one asked Liesl to come down. The others had been told only what they needed: that she wasn’t feeling well. That she needed rest. That they should be gentle tomorrow.
Georg and Maria knew that evening their being parents came first. Therefore, Maria volunteered to keep Liesl company. She changed into her nightgown and robe, and then made for the door.
Georg kissed her, then kissed her hands. “I will miss you, but go.”
Liesl was already curled on her side, awake, dry-eyed now but hollow. She didn’t protest. She just moved slightly so Maria could lie behind her. The darkness of the room was punctuated only by the quiet, ragged breaths and the soft shuffling of hearts in sorrow.
It was a long time before either of them could drift into a fitful sleep. Liesl, still trembling in her grief, found in Maria’s close embrace a small measure of solace, even if the heartache was far from over.
Georg, shaken by the events and saddened by Liesl’s pain, had gone to his study for a brandy. His mind was unsettled, and he missed Maria terribly. After a time, he decided to check on his two dear girls.
In the end, he fell asleep in a chair in Liesl’s room, watching over them both.
Beginning anew was a challenge. There was the fear that Liesl might still try to reach out to Rolf; there was the pain in Liesl’s eyes; there were six other children of all ages who would see and probably hear something, and they would have to give answers to all of them.
Surprisingly, Friedrich and Louisa came forward of their own will, just before dinner.
Louisa admitted that she had often met Rolf; in fact, she was with Liesl the first time he approached her, and several other times when he asked to walk with her. Friedrich had met him a few times, and Rolf had tried to check whether he was interested in discussing politics with him or not.
They both had covered for Liesl, and Liesl had already told them what had happened, or at least her version. And now they felt guilty, even though they didn't seem to fully understand what had been the problem with Rolf.
They had caught Friedrich tenderly kissing Liesl on her cheek, to console her. “I am sorry, Liesl,” he had said.
So, Maria and Georg asked them both, but especially Friedrich, to help them keep an eye on the situation, in case Rolf did not keep away from Liesl. Friedrich was especially proud of being asked to do such a thing.
It was then time for the great announcement.
Georg announced solemnly at breakfast, “Children, your mother and I have reflected on it, and we thought that it would be important for you to start discussing with us what happens in the world before you become adults. Not all of you, not always, and not too early. But you need to know why some people might approach you and try to convince you of something, or why some things might happen.”
He paused briefly to look at them. They were all rather attentive and serious, except for Liesl, who bore something like shame and guilt on her face.
Poor girl.
He continued. “I always thought keeping you as distant from the troubles of the world as possible would protect you. Sadly, it was just the opposite. Because I never talked to you about patriotism and nationalism, I made you vulnerable. It will never happen again.”
Maria added, “This means we will also talk about what the war really meant. Not just your father’s valour, not just trying to protect your country, not just the loss of your home in Pola. And we will talk again about that singing march I heard from you, Friedrich and Kurt.
We will never impose our thoughts on you, but we want you to start thinking for yourself, before someone does it for you.”
Liesl listened in silence, her shoulders slightly drawn inward. The words were welcome—explanations, truths, perhaps even forgiveness—but she still carried the bruise of her own naivety. She didn’t speak. But when Georg placed a hand on her back at the end of the conversation, she didn’t pull away.
The three oldest were the first who were invited to discuss the main political issues in Austria in Georg’s study. Georg began by outlining the main parties, attempting a balanced view. But Maria soon interjected, 'We mustn’t forget: Austria already has a serious antisemitism problem, even without Hitler’s movement.”
“But we are Catholics, and you always remind us that love is the first commandment. Why then is the Christian-Social Party antisemitic? It doesn’t make any sense,” observed Friedrich.
“Because they forgot what Christ actually taught,” Maria said quietly.
“Or maybe,” Louisa added, “they never listened in the first place.”
Georg smiled faintly at that. “You might be righter than you think.”
Liesl was curious about another thing. “So, Father, you say that you are a monarchist, and that you regularly meet with some monarchist militants from the Christian-Social Party to talk about a Habsburg restoration. Then Mother says that she is not particularly interested in a monarchy, and that she has several priorities that are more progressive than conservative. How does it all work together?”
Georg began. “I am considering distancing myself from my circle. Unless it’s to talk about the good old times. There have been several statements and actions recently, coming from the Christian-Social Party, that remind me too much of Hitler’s party. I believe monarchy, Austrian tradition, patriotism, and rights can coexist. And I will never stand for antisemitism. I once believed tradition was a shield from chaos, and a moment of unity. But now I see: some traditions have become weapons in the wrong hands.”
Maria completed. “Your father agrees with treating workers fairly, with letting women decide about their lives, with the need for education for all; he rejects antisemitism and nationalism. We find our common ground in this, as well as in many other things. Also, I do cooperate with women who definitely do not share my views, to do some charity work. Especially funding education for young people who would not afford it. I am currently creating my own charity, to provide scholarships for working-class children. We cannot isolate ourselves from everyone, just because most people don’t share our views. We all need friends, and we also need to help you enter society when it’s time. We cannot do it alone.”
Louisa wasn’t convinced, “And why would you want us to make friends with people whose parents believe in hating Jews, Slavs, and poorer people?”
Maria was better equipped to answer this. “Many people don’t really stop to read party programs. They align with what seems right for them. In our circles, it’s very common that people are suspicious of the Social Democratic Party. You must know we are very privileged: most of the people we meet are privileged too. During and after the war, some things happened that made privileged people scared.”
Georg intervened: “There were riots, and revolutions. Some aristocrats were killed.”
Liesl startled. “Father, were you ever in danger? Or scared?”
“I admit I worried, a few times. But I was an officer who had fought side by side with his men, and not known as an authoritarian, so in the end, nothing happened.”
Louisa glossed, “It seems to me like the world is very complicated, and people really try everything possible in order not to get along.”
“That is why we want you to start thinking for yourself. You are the adults of tomorrow. You are our best chance for a different future,” said Maria.
“And I think my flag in the hall should be seen as a symbol of how far I’d go for love, and of my patriotism, but nothing more,” concluded Georg.
A few days later, the first results of the family’s new course manifested themselves in a rather peculiar but endearing way.
Liesl, of all people, stood up at dinner and proclaimed, “We, the Trapp siblings, have discussed between us and democratically decided that we are going to do away with the formal appellatives of ‘Father’ and ‘Mother’, and will from now on call you ‘Papa’ and ‘Mama’, as most children in normal families do.”
The resolution was accepted, but not before Brigitta remarked, “We first had to explain Kurt what an appellative was, of course.”
“Martha and Gretl didn’t know either!”
Brigitta rolled her eyes. “Yes, because they are small children!”
After that, and the anniversary of Agathe’s death with their remembrance and a Mass, came the influenza.
The children brought it home from school, and Maria saw how Georg reacted to the dark memory of what had happened with Agathe. She was prohibited from assisting them, to which she replied, “Darling, I understand how you feel, but we have dined together, and we all live in the same house. There is not much we can do. Either I catch it, or not.”
“This is not something I am willing to discuss about. You know why I don’t want you near them.” Georg had a look in his eyes she had never seen before, his eyes open wide, worry lines on his face.
“Georg, they do want my affection, too.”
“They understand why I am doing this. I cannot have you near them. I would not survive losing you. Stay away from them, let me tend to them.”
“Georg, it’s just the flu! Most of the time there are no long-lasting effects, and many are treatable now, by the way!”
But she knew, she saw she had to obey this time.
Of course, she did get ill herself, and he assisted her, too.
She teased him, “Did you assist your sailors the very same way on your U-boat?”
“I did bring the occasional tea or hair of the dog to a sailor, but I definitely didn’t kiss them!” She could still see the worry eating him from the inside out, but at least he was relaxing a little when he saw her having a natural development, and even giggled.
When it was over, he asked for her forgiveness. “I should not have ordered you about. And yes, probably I should be less worried about the flu or a cold. I promise I will be more reasonable in the future, but I will always try to protect you.”
Maria then shared an observation. “Georg, are you immune to disease?”
“I have been all around the world in a ship. I have been sleeping in shared accommodations for over a decade. It seems like I am!”
Maria, still sniffling a little, tried to giggle.
“Oh, and for the record: this summer I am taking you all to the seaside! Your health will improve for sure!”
Those were Georg’s final words on the topic.
Come spring, Maria found herself reflecting on one particular thing.
She had experienced many of the perks of being Baroness von Trapp: from the opera and theatre to a few balls, from being an important member of the community to being a beloved wife, partner, and mother to her husband’s seven children.
And yet, she hadn’t experienced that which many newly married women longed to.
She wasn’t really worried, or desperate. Their relationship was still amazingly passionate, and they did have seven wonderful children already. But she wondered why she wasn’t pregnant yet, after six months. Maybe it was stupid to make such a comparison, but… Agathe had conceived Liesl almost immediately. Was that just chance… or something Maria lacked?
She got caught in a spiral of thoughts that she herself defined stupid: she looked at Agathe’s body, so traditionally womanly, and thought of hers. She knew Georg absolutely loved her figure, and she did have the most important feminine features, but she was athletic, thinner, even slightly muscular due to her love for sports and her life in the Red Vienna.
Was that the reason, as many women used to say?
As any rational person would do, she resorted to the most logical thing to do: consulting a doctor, but only after consulting Elsa over the phone.
“Oh, dear! If you were already pregnant, I think you should start fearing the Fthonos Theon, the envy of the Gods. You are so nauseatingly romantic and perfect, you know?”
Typical Elsa.
“Does this also mean that you think it’s normal to not be pregnant after six or seven months?”
“Maria, dear, I am definitely not an expert in motherhood, as you should well know. But your idea of consulting a doctor is, well, logical.”
“Good.”
“Maria? Just remember what I told you about Dr Rombacher and about secrets. There is no need to tell the doctor too much. Ask your question, answer his questions in the most essential way possible, go back home.”
And with that, Maria went to Dr Brunner and shared her doubts.
Dr Brunner listened carefully, and replied gently. “I understand your concern, Baroness. It is natural to have expectations, especially when you see others around you starting their families.” He paused thoughtfully. “Tell me, you and your husband… you are… intimate?”
Maria nodded quickly, her blush deepening. “Yes, Doctor. Regularly.” Far more than regularly, if one asked their poor furniture. But this was neither the time nor the audience for such confessions.
Dr Brunner stroked his moustache. “And you are both in good health, as far as you know?”
“Yes, Doctor. We feel well.”
He considered this for a moment. “Marriage is a significant change in a woman's life, Baroness. Your body is adjusting to a new rhythm, a new household. These things can sometimes take time. The workings of a woman's body are intricate, and while we understand much, there are still aspects that remain… less clear.” He chose his words carefully, avoiding overly scientific jargon that might confuse her.
He then offered a reassuring smile. “Children arrive when they mean to, Baroness. Sometimes it is a swift journey, and sometimes… it requires a little more patience. Continue to live a healthy life, maintain your well-being, and allow nature to take its course. If, after a longer period, you still have concerns, please do not hesitate to return. But for now, try not to worry unduly.”
Maria looked at him, a mixture of relief and lingering unease in her eyes. “So… there isn't anything… wrong?”
“It is too early to say that, Baroness. But there is certainly no immediate cause for alarm based on what you have told me. Allow time. It is often the best healer, and the best architect of new life.”
On her way home, Maria breathed in the soft scent of blooming magnolias. Spring had come, after all. And perhaps, just like the blossoms, some things could not be hurried — only awaited, with hope.
Notes:
Cliffhanger or not?
We'll see. Next time, we will spend the summer of 1927 with the Trapps.
Chapter 16: An Istrian summer (1927)
Summary:
Georg's vague plans for a family sea holiday materialise as Italy's internal affairs settle, though not entirely for the better. The Trapps prepare for their Istrian summer with their usual blend of love and mischief. Their journey unfolds with both joyful and sobering events, as they share bittersweet memories and create new ones, while also confronting the harsh realities of the fascist regime's impact on those who don't conform. Amidst this, Georg showcases hidden talents, Friedrich matures, and Max and Elsa turn the Trapp Villa into Salzburg's summer social hub.
Notes:
- At the time, in most of the Salzburg region, people drove on the left, while Mussolini had introduced right-hand traffic across Italy in 1923.
- The Italian Fascist Party rose to power in 1922 and by 1925 had established an authoritarian regime (with totalitarian aspirations that were never fully realized). As of 1927, the Voluntary Militia for National Security (Milizia Volontaria per la Sicurezza Nazionale, MVSN), commonly known as the Blackshirts, functioned as the Party's militia. Younger members began in age-appropriate youth groups, such as the Avanguardisti (ages 14-18).
- In January, in Schattendorf, Austria, right-wing paramilitaries shot unarmed members of a left-wing paramilitary group, killing an adult and a child. Their subsequent acquittal sparked a revolt that summer (referenced by the family while in Istria).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Georg’s idea of a sea holiday remained rather vague for a while. He and Maria had briefly entertained the possibility of bringing the entire family to Cannes, but then a phone call changed everything, and how!
It was Bobby, calling from Fiume. “Hey, Corsair of the Adriatic! You know you can finally set foot in Italy again? It seems like the government feels they have everything under control, so you are free to come! Not a threat to the nation anymore!”
Bobby was a little disappointed to hear that he would come only in the summer, and with the entire family. He and Frankie always enjoyed Georg’s engineering insights.
The Trapps, on the other hand, were rather excited by Georg’s plans, which included a tour of Istria, Trieste, and Venice, a trip to Zara, lots of sailing, and even a few weeks of camping.
The first order given was to intensify Italian practice with the children and take up serious Italian lessons with Maria.
Liesl was especially helpful to Georg in practicing with the children, and Friedrich and Louisa still fared decently, so that he guessed they would fare rather well; Kurt and Brigitta were eager, but needed to work on their Italian urgently; Martha and Gretl were almost tabula rasa.
Louisa had a lot of rather useful insights. “See? Now I can call any of you either a Trottel, or an idiot, or a stupido.”
Liesl was surprisingly unladylike. “Let’s not forget scemo. And in the Venetian dialect of the region, mona”
Kurt asked, “How do you say ‘I’d like a second helping, please?’”
Friedrich came to his aid. “You have to say Sei proprio un mona, neh!”
Liesl and Louisa laughed, but then didn’t resist. “That actually means ‘you truly are an idiot, hey!’. You must say ‘Posso averne ancora, per favore?’ And then say ‘Grazie!’ when they assent or give you more.”
Brigitta did not agree with Liesl’s kindness. “Why! You ruined it!”
Martha and Gretl took note of everything and memorised it instantly, grinning widely.
Maria’s lessons needed more structure and more effort from Georg. She did speak French well, and knew a few sentences in several languages, Italian included. She also had Latin and Ancient Greek. So, she had a method, but she sorely needed practice and pronunciation.
That some of the couple’s lessons strayed a little from the program was only natural: between a sailor and a progressive teacher, a little flexibility in the presentation by the teacher and in the motivation of the student was to be expected.
Once, they were still on the rug in Georg’s study, wrapped in each other, stark naked and laughing.
“I am not entirely sure that was essential to teach me the difference between passato prossimo and imperfetto”, Maria sighed, both satisfied and amused, “but I am not complaining either.”
“We’ll see tomorrow when I check your assignment. Write about your last lesson. Describe what the teacher did. Use passato prossimo and imperfetto.” He began kissing her again. “Oh, mia bella moglie! Ti amo!” [Oh, my beautiful wife! I love you!]
“That much I already understand,” she replied — and then the phone rang.
Georg stood up, completely naked, and picked up the receiver.
Maria rolled onto her back, laughing. “What are you doing?” she mouthed silently.
Georg covered the mouthpiece and muttered, “It’s Max, from Elsa’s townhouse. They’re calling to discuss details for when they take over the villa this summer.”
Maria, still giggling, whispered, “Imagine the shock Elsa would have if she knew we were naked in here…”
Georg grinned, covering the phone. “Well, she does think we’re too perfect. Time to live up to it.”
And with that, the Trapps began to prepare for a summer of saltwater, sailing, and—if their Italian lessons were anything to go by—just a little bit of mischief.
It was established that they would meet Constance and Connie directly in Fiume, where they would go with the Whiteheads, whereas the family would make a stop in Trieste, since Georg hadn’t been there in years.
When they stepped out of the train, Georg reminded them that the town had pledged itself to the Habsburgs in 1382 and therefore looked more like Vienna than an Italian town or city.
The port, right by the Central Station and the Old Harbour, was bustling with activity.
The family was instantly fascinated. Only Liesl truly remembered the house in Pola; Friedrich had some vague memory, too; and Louisa could at least claim to have been born there and raised there for a while; but the others had never seen or smelled the sea. Maria had had her glimpse of the Mediterranean in Cannes during the honeymoon, but this was different.
The sounds of people coming and going, of ships creaking and calling in the port; the smell of salt, oil, and sun-warmed stone—it was overwhelming, and wonderful. And Georg beamed, boyish with excitement.
He suggested they all walk to their accommodation, the Savoia Excelsior Palace, “built by a Viennese architect,” commented Georg, to enjoy the quay.
After lunch, they planned a brief exploration of the main square, Piazza Grande, and of the Canal Grande, to get a feeling for the town and to enjoy the sea air and the sun.
The children, probably a little intimidated by being in a foreign country, were not as troublesome as the couple might have feared, and they kept following the group instead of daring to explore things by themselves.
Georg and Maria planned to walk around the city a little bit more the following day, and to visit the Civic Museum of Natural History. Then, they would see whether the children would be tired or not, after a journey and the excitement of a new place.
Kurt asked, “Can’t we go swimming, Papa?”
“Kurt, I promise you will have enough of swimming and sailing when we go back to Salzburg! Besides, most of our things have been shipped directly to Fiume!”
Thus, the following day, the family kept to their program. After lunch, Georg and Maria decided to spend the afternoon at the hotel for some rest, coffee, and relaxing activities with the younger children. However, they allowed the three oldest, whose Italian was also the best, to explore the town by themselves. It was also a reward for the maturity shown in their discussions with their parents, for their past school year, and also for Liesl’s difficult time around February.
“We trust you. Besides, even I have to admit I am tired,” said Maria.
“Just remember to explain that you speak German at home and at school in Salzburg, and that you might not understand everything, or be able to say everything,” was Georg’s advice.
“Don’t eat too much gelato, or Kurt and I will be mad at you,” jested Maria as a last greeting.
Therefore, Liesl, Friedrich and Louisa, dressed in their Italian clothes, so different from what they wore in Salzburg, started walking through the streets of Trieste, armed with a map, and a lot of curiosity.
“Italy isn’t a republic, is it?” Louisa asked, frowning.
“No, it’s still a kingdom,” Liesl filled in.
“Should we fear that Papa will keep us here? The sea, a king… I think he might just like it too much. And we are all already citizens,” jested Friedrich, to the amusement of everyone.
Having explored some interesting architecture and briefly discussed their faint memories of Pola, they decided to look for a gelateria.
After they found one, they started discussing among them what to try, who would talk, and how to pay with lire without getting confused.
They didn’t notice two young Blackshirts coming towards them.
One of the Blackshirts interrupted their discussion rather rudely and commandingly, snapping in Italian:
“Hey! Speak Italian! Don’t make me say it twice!”
The three children were rather scared. The two uniformed young men, in black shirts and matching fez hats, were armed. Their posture and expressions made it clear they were not friendly.
Liesl did what her father told her to say, leaving out one detail. “We are sorry. We speak German at home and at school, so our Italian is not as good as our German.”
“You speak German at home and at school. Interesting,” said one of the men.
The other interjected, “See, Nanni? You are an idiot. They are not Slavs.”
Nanni hissed, “Yes, they are not Slavs, and where are they from?” He then turned back to the trio and asked with venom in his voice, “And where are you going to school in German? I really would like to know.”
“In Salzburg, Austria,” Liesl hurried to answer.
At this, a visible tension eased from the two men. “So, you are tourists then! But you speak Italian, right?”
Friedrich took over. “We speak Italian. We were all born in Pola. We are even Italian citizens. But we live in Salzburg, Austria.”
The two men exchanged confused looks. “Why are you living in Salzburg if you are Italian?”
Louisa tried to do her part. “Our family is… Austrian. Our language, our culture. But our father was born in Zara, our mother in Fiume, and we in Pola, so we are Italian.”
Nanni exclaimed, “Oh, now I see. Ah, so you were Austrians before the war—your family must have left when it broke out, eh?”
The trio nodded, hope in their eyes.
Nanni continued. “Have you ever considered coming back? It’s beautiful here now. You said you are from Pola, right? Come back, have your names changed back to Italian if you have German ones. What are your names?”
The three said their names, “Elisabeth,” “Friedrich,” “Louisa.”
The other man repeated them in Italian. “Elisabetta, Federico and Luisa. Beautiful names. Welcome to Trieste. Are you siblings?”
“Yes,” they answered all together.
Friedrich dared a little bit. “And who are you?”
The two men laughed in a rather impolite manner, then straightened themselves, cleared their throats, and answered. The one called Nanni began.
“We are members of the Voluntary Militia for National Security. Blackshirts. Never heard of us?”
Apparently, a new session of discussing things with Mama and Papa was overdue. The trio shook their heads. Liesl, who first had thought they were policemen, had a few suspicions about who they were.
Therefore, she tried to guess. “So, you were actually… checking whether we are dangerous or not?”
“We were checking whether you were Slavs or Altoatesini refusing to speak Italian, defying the law.”
At that, the three children remembered some of their discussions about the Hitler movement and about nationalism. So, were they like the local version of the NSDAP?
Liesl, her Italian being the best, tried for diplomacy. “I apologise if we worried you. As we said, we usually speak German at home, so it’s easier for us to speak German. We wanted some gelato, and we never paid in lire. We were talking about these things.”
Nanni seemed to change tone a little. “Well, my dear miss, it seems there was a misunderstanding. As I said, welcome to Trieste. I am Nanni, and he is Ezio.” He then turned to Friedrich: “Federico, you will forgive me, but I have to say your sisters are the most beautiful young women I have ever seen!”
Louisa wanted to hit the two men, especially considering their rather irreverent expression. Friedrich thought that his father would have probably wanted him to beat the two men. Liesl felt only disgust: everything reminded her of Rolf. The same slick charm masking menace.
Ezio added, stretching his hands forward, palm up, gesturing for calm, “I didn’t mean to offend any of you! But you must know how enchanting you are! Anyway, we are not here to romance young ladies, sadly. But we could invite you to join the Party, or the Fascist Saturday. Are you going to stay for a while?”
“We are here for the summer. We are going to Istria,” explained Friedrich.
Ezio continued, “Istria, splendid! You would be an enrichment for any section there! A pity you are not staying here. Since you clearly have never heard of us, we are members of the Fascist Party. Our Duce is Benito Mussolini. You must have seen his pictures around, next to the King’s one.”
Louisa admitted that she had noticed some photos hanging around somewhere.
It was now Nanni’s turn again. “Our Duce is rebuilding the Italian nation, after the chaos of the post-war phase. If you are willing to speak Italian and to change your names back to Italian, you would be welcome to stay and be a part of the glorious future of the nation!”
The trio had heard those words. It was not good.
Ezio explained, “We recently joined the Blackshirts, as we turned eighteen, but we were Avanguardisti earlier. The Duce has an entire concept for us young people, from childhood to your age until our age. Education, sports, loyalty, values.”
Yep, all things they had heard already. Liesl especially.
Her legs nearly gave out beneath her, but she clenched her fists and held her ground. “Does this Duce admire Adolf Hitler, or support him, perchance? Hitler says the same things.”
The two men burst into yet another undignified laughter.
Nanni explained, “Adolf Hitler is the one admiring the Duce and copying his ideas, my dear miss. We were first, we are the best.”
He then gestured for them to come even nearer, and pulled pamphlets from their inner pockets. Ezio did the same. “Here, these are some of our leaflets. You will find everything about our ideals, about our youth organisations, about the next rallies, parades, and Fascist Saturdays. This one, with the Duce on it, also features one of his speeches to the youth. Feel free to read them. You can go to your local Fascist party section any time to join.”
The trio only wanted the two men to disappear. They politely accepted the material, thanking them repeatedly, sweating not for the heat and the sun but for the situation.
Were their parents not aware of the state of things in Italy?
The two Blackshirts took their smiles and thanks at face value, and finally made to leave. “We are now leaving. There is always much to do. We hope to see you soon among us! Enjoy Istria!”
They raised their right arms in the fascist salute and shouted, “Viva il Duce!” Then, they went away.
The trio exchanged a few worried looks.
Louisa asked, “Should we go back to the hotel immediately?”
Liesl begged, “I cannot walk right now. I need some time. I need to sit, and breathe.”
Both Louisa and Friedrich threw one arm around her. “Maybe a gelato might help, too,” suggested Friedrich. He then made for a table, let Liesl sit down, and went to order, eager to wash away the bitterness of the encounter with some Italian dessert.
A while later, they found their parents sitting in the courtyard of the hotel, drinking cappuccino and conversing amiably while keeping a look on their four younger siblings. They even had newspapers in front of them.
There was no preamble: as soon as the couple had started greeting them and asking how it was, Liesl demanded an explanation. “So, how come there is something like the Hitler movement in Italy too and you never told us?”
Louisa added, “We were stopped by two… how was it? Blackshirts?”
Friedrich showed them the propaganda material. “They first thought we were refusing to speak Italian, or something like that, then tried to recruit us for the Fascist party upon hearing we are actually Italians.”
Georg and Maria were rather shocked, and felt rather guilty.
Maria asked, “Did anything bad happen?”
Friedrich replied, “Only that we were first scared, then rather uncomfortable with what they were saying.”
The trio told a detailed version of the encounter, that made the couple feel rather ashamed for letting their children down, and not for the first time.
Maria began first. “It’s been… some time since I was truly politically active. There was some talk about what was happening in Italy, whether it would spread or not. But then, I… chose to focus on faith, and friendship, then I entered the Abbey. I suppose things must have worsened since then.”
Georg cut in. “I have always used your uncles as a source of information about what was important to me about Italy. The factory, my ban from the country. As for the rest, I always focused on Austrian issues, and tangentially, on German ones.”
Maria added, “I did the same. I focused on my world. We will have to find out more as we are here.”
Georg remarked, “It does seem like the town has lost something. From what you say, people are forced to speak Italian and not Slovenian or even Croatian. It may be it.”
Liesl suggested, “Won’t uncle Bobby and uncle Frankie know more? They are often in Fiume. They are bound to know more.”
Georg exchanged a look of understanding with Maria. “I suppose so.”.
As planned, the following day, the family departed for Fiume, where the Whiteheads as well as Constance and Connie were waiting. The parents tried to have the family concentrate on the pleasantness of their holiday; and, after all, the presence of the fascist regime was not as imposing as one might have thought. The main difference was that, if one cared to look for it, it was subtly there. Italian everywhere, in place of the melting pot Georg remembered; a few Blackshirts here and there; the photos or pictures of Mussolini next to those of King Vittorio Emanuele III in public spaces.
Georg did not feel safe to share his thoughts on the train, but he did share them as soon as they were at the Whiteheads’ villa in Fiume, with all of the family, Martha and Gretl included.
“Trieste, Fiume… it used to be a vibrant mix. German, Italian, Slovenian, Croatian, Hungarian… all spoken freely. Now, it's all Italian, Italian, Italian. It feels… less alive, somehow. Less like the place I remember, apart from the sea and the Mediterranean nature.”
Brigitta felt sorry for her father. “You were so happy to be back! I am sorry!”
“Don’t be, Brigitta. I am sure there is much to appreciate, and I am sure we will have a nice holiday. But I want you to be aware of what has happened here. People are now forced to use Italian all the time and to give up their names for Italian ones. During the Austrian Monarchy, people were free to choose their identity, their school, their language.”
Maria added, “Although some people would criticise you for only seeing the positives and not the tensions, the problems. Not everyone was satisfied. I am not saying this to criticise you, darling, but the children deserve to know all sides of the story.”
Louisa very cleverly remarked, “You often say you think the return of the Habsburgs and a constitutional monarchy would keep the country safer from people like the Blackshirts, or all the shady political formations in Austria. But King Vittorio Emanuele has not stopped Mussolini, it seems.”
Georg had to admit, “Even Emperor Karl could not stop what was a majority of people in 1918. But, you see, he didn’t order to shoot on them. He accepted what the people chose.”
Louisa pressed, “You are contradicting yourself a little, Papa. Either a monarchy can really do something when things are dire, or Mama is right when she says that the debate monarchy/republic is meaningless if we don’t solve the more concrete issues, like workers’ wages, women’s rights, affordable education.”
Maria blushed a little, and threw an ‘I told you so’-look at Georg, who commented teasingly, “Women hold the real power in our family. It’s time I gave up my title.”
Maria rebutted, “You can keep yours. I will be your new admiral, of course, and Louisa needs a title, too, it seems,” nudging his arms and then brushing it affectionately.
Liesl added, “Speaking of which… Mama, you can say the word. We know you were in the Social Democratic Party. You have taught us too well now!”
Martha dared to ask, “Papa? Do we treat Resi, Betty, Hans and all the others well?”
“Of course, darling. That’s very important. Always remember that.”
The conversation with Bobby and Frankie did confirm many of the things they had heard or noticed: people were forcefully italianised, communication with Yugoslavia was restricted, but there was no ‘real violence’, according to them. In fact, “the Duce put a stop on violent acts. No shootings like in Schattendorf in January,” said Bobby.
Maria was rather appalled. “When did he stop the violence on the streets? Not before he had used it for his own goals. And let’s not forget who shot whom in Schattendorf.”
Frankie rebutted, “I am not saying we are Party members, neither are we interested in becoming one, Maria. I am just saying, you are making Mussolini sound worse that he actually is. He does not share Hitler’s obsession for blood, to begin with. Anyone is welcome; the condition is being assimilated to Italian culture.”
Georg took that personally. “Tell me, Frank… do you agree with forbidding children from speaking their mother tongue in school?”
Frank saw the matter rather pragmatically and smiled lazily. “Well, we run a factory, not a philosophy club. As long as they show up and work, I don’t ask what language they dream in.”
Bobby supported his brother. “You Austrian patriots and your nostalgia. The Empire’s gone, Georg. This is what life serves us, now. I don’t care whether they call me Roberto or what else, as long as we can go on with our life.”
Maria was rather cold. “So, we season ‘whatever life serves us’ with repression?”
Frank felt sorry for the direction this exchange was taking. “Listen, I appreciate your concerns. But, as Georg very well knows, we do not treat our workers like cattle. We never did. The factory is doing just fine, and Mussolini actually granted this year a Carta del Lavoro, granting workers some rights that not every business owner had granted—you know very well we always did, courtesy also of your shareholder husband. All he asked in return was to work without interruptions.”
Robert added, “Mussolini used to be a Socialist, you know.”
Georg and Maria looked at each other, still perplexed.
Frankie wanted to end the discussion, and he knew what would do just fine. “Let us be honest: with Mussolini’s Quota 90 for the Italian lira, we were able to expand further. And you do profit from our expansion, too. You are now spending the summer in Istria with not a worry in sight, spending all you want on your children, and your sister-in-law and niece too. There is a new yacht waiting for you to sail to Zara, Pola, and Veruda.”
Bobby reminded: “You could always sell your shares, move to Linz, and start working full time for one of your shipping companies, of course—I suppose Agathe’s money and your other companies will still do just fine for a while, but with such a large family, you’ll have to be careful. But something tells me you prefer working from home, on your terms, enjoying your married life and the children. For our part, you can rest assured that we are not joining the Party, and neither will we ever mistreat our labour force, Carta del Lavoro or not. Deal?”
Georg and Maria admitted that they could not just upturn their life, and that as long as they held shares, they had their say in all matters, Therefore, they accepted the compromise, and worked on making their holiday a moment of enjoyment of the nature, as well as of remembrance of both Agathe and Werner.
Georg raised his glass. “Very well. Truce, gentlemen. You run your factories. I’ll sail my family across the Adriatic and try not to crash into any new regimes on the way.”
The only complication was Georg being forced to cross the border to send a telegram to Knežević. He had hoped to meet his friend with the family, but it seemed like it would be complicated, as his border crossing was.
When he came back, after a day in which Maria and Constance explored a beach just outside the town, with Maria bravely driving on the opposite side as she was used to, he commented with a sigh, “I do need to relax. I long for our sailing and swimming days. And you, Baroness von Trapp, look even more enticing than your usual irresistible self these days.”
Maria, relaxing in his arms after a day of worrying about him, jested. “Must be the sea air. Or you being a sailor again.”
Kissing her neck, he said, “I will most likely be commandeering you as often as possible these days.”
Returning the favour, she replied between kisses, “You see? It’s good I read pirates’ novels. I would not have known that word otherwise.”
After a few days, where Georg checked the yacht and familiarised himself with it, and where Maria tried to acclimatise herself to the sun and heat by resting a little more often, alternating naps to playing with the children, they set out for Zara, a breeze carrying them across the blue expanse. Georg took the helm with boyish pride. Maria, sun-kissed and laughing with Constance, lay back on the deck, her hand drifting lazily in the air like a sail. For the first time in weeks, Georg felt something close to ease. The wind in his face, the smell of salt and pine, the laughter of the children below deck—it was almost like it used to be.
He closed his eyes. He could almost see Werner—diving recklessly into the sea, shouting back to him in Italian, “Capitano, we’re taking Pola by storm!”
He hadn’t thought of his brother in a while. He had never talked much about him, not even with Agathe—who, after all, had always feared he would meet the same fate as his younger brother. But now, here, with Maria, maybe even with Constance, he felt he could share some of it. A few memories. A bit of Werner, while it still lived in him.
Zara was where Georg and Werner were born, always following their father’s Navy postings. They reached it in less than three days of sailing, visited the town in the late morning and early afternoon, and then found a beach next to a pine grove to camp for the night.
They didn’t set up all the tents—in fact, Georg and Maria planned on sleeping aboard the yacht, just the two of them. The children bunked up together in the grove without complaint.
That night, long after the children had zipped themselves into the canvas cocoon of their tents in the pineta, the fire crackled on the beach, stubbornly defying the sea breeze. Above them, the sky stretched wide and luminous—a vault of stars. It had the same weight and brilliance Georg remembered from his boyhood summers: an old, familiar ceiling under which hearts spoke more freely.
Maria leaned gently against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He held her hand, absently tracing circles on her skin with his thumb. She could feel his chest rise and fall—slow, deliberate—as if the sea had calmed something in him.
Constance sat across from them, wrapped in a shawl, her eyes tracing the flames.
“You’re quiet,” Georg said softly. “Are you all right? I know I mentioned Werner too often. I just couldn’t help it.”
Constance didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was hushed and fragile. “I am. Don’t worry, Georg. I don’t want to forget him. Our little Constanze is a joy, and she looks so much like him… but she’s not him. She doesn’t bring him back. Sometimes I worry the memories are thinning, like old photographs left in the sun.”
Georg nodded, the firelight catching the sorrow in his eyes. “I know. I feel it too.”
There was a silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind that invited truth.
“We were always here in the summer,” Georg said after a while. “Werner and I. Two boys with nothing to do but swim, steal fruit, and build forts in the dunes. He used to tease me mercilessly.”
Maria reached up to brush his chest, as if to check his heart was still there.
“It is liberating to talk about him,” he added. “When he died, I didn’t really have anyone to talk to. Not in the Navy—everyone was at risk, people died by the thousands. Not on leave—Agathe didn’t want to be reminded that I could die too. We never went beyond the perfunctory phrases one says in those cases.”
Maria said gently, “She was brave. And so were you. You too, Constance. I don’t think I could’ve let him go to war.”
Both Georg and Constance answered at once, “There wasn’t much choice.”
“I know, I know. I don’t mean it like that,” Maria said quickly. “I just mean… now, surely, Georg, you wouldn’t go again? I would definitely not let you.”
He thought about it briefly. “You’re right. I wouldn’t want to fight again. But I also know I’d do whatever it takes to protect you and the children. That’s what Werner and I thought we were doing back then. So—no, I don’t see myself entering active service again. But I don’t know what the future might bring.”
“Georg, I hope you never have to do anything worse than an argument or a brawl to protect us!” There was fire in Maria’s voice now, an unshakable certainty beneath the tenderness.
Constance stood. “It’s time for me to say goodnight. Thank you for sharing some memories of my husband, Georg. It was good… thinking of him alive, and happy, as a child.”
“You know you made him happy, right?”
“And he did the same for me. Good night. See you in the morning.”
They watched her disappear into the shadows. The waves kept up their soft rhythm, echoing something ancient and steady.
Georg reached for Maria, gesturing for her to shift between his legs. She settled there without a word.
“Somehow, I can picture you barring the door,” he murmured, lips brushing her hair. “Trying to stop a Gendarme from taking me to my post.”
“I have to be honest. If I’d married you in your twenties, I probably would’ve started preparing for it. I’m glad you’re forty.”
“So—no complaints about my being older?”
“None at all, my love.”
“You know,” he said, grinning now, “I don’t think we’ve ever made love in a pine grove.” He stood, grabbed a blanket, and in one swift move, hoisted her over his shoulder.
“Georg!” she hissed, stifling her laughter. “What if someone hears? What if we get lost?”
“I grew up here. We’re not getting lost.”
A few days later, they sailed back to Fiume, and then on to Pola. Georg and Liesl wanted to see their old villa immediately, an elegant white building rather near the waterfront, with a nice Mediterranean garden and full of balconies.
They had sold it, and now there were new inhabitants there. But from beyond the railings, they could see enough to prompt memories.
Georg let Liesl speak. “See? That’s where I, Friedrich, and Louisa were born. I remember one day, before the war broke out—it must have been spring, already. We were all in the garden, waiting for Papa to come back after his day at the base. Friedrich must have seen Papa bringing flowers to Mamá, because he picked up some daisies and gave them to Mamá, me, and Louisa.”
“So, you were always a little bit of a gentleman, deep down,” remarked Maria, nudging him with her elbow and then kissing his temple. Friedrich blushed, and Kurt—suddenly very jealous—decided to pick up some flowers, too, and distributed them to all the ladies with overstated bows and some imitation of courtly words from those novels he still read in secret. He received the kisses and hugs he always longed for.
“Georg, this reminds me of when Friedrich danced a waltz with Liesl on the terrace, and then Kurt asked me to dance the Ländler,” Maria remembered tenderly. The moment they truly fell in love. He gave her a peck on her lips, to the hilarity of all the children.
They spent the first days visiting the town, and also visiting old friends of Georg and Agathe. One of them would be their logistical support in their feat of camping for a while on the island of Veruda, as well as moving back to a house in August, when the weather might have turned a little more unstable, and when they would visit Grado and Venice, too.
The island of Veruda was uninhabited, and smelled of warm needles and salt; nothing had changed in the way the water gleamed like bottle glass. They set up camp casually—the tents were more of a suggestion than a necessity. Georg suggested sleeping on the boat sometimes: Maria didn’t object, and the children saw it all as an adventure.
They also set up places to plant their umbrellas, and stretched a few tarpaulins between pine branches to have more shade when needed.
These preparations ushered in a few weeks of fun and joy for everyone. From swim trainings under the supervision of both Georg and Maria, to swim challenges, where Georg was finally able to catch Maria (“You never trained swimming upstream in the sea, did you,” said Georg gallantly), to football and volleyball both on the sand and in shallow water. Then singing, playing guitar, games, naps, reading, practicing English and Italian together. In the evening, they often told tales, sometimes about nice memories with Agathe and Werner, sometimes abridged versions of Max’s adventures, usually involving him fleeing from ‘enemies’ (actually jealous husbands, fathers, and brothers) or trying to avoid being caught smuggling liquor for the parties in the capital during the war.
One of the most singular revelations, however, was Georg cleaning fish professionally and cooking.
Maria discovered it upon seeing Georg fishing from a flat rock. Maria joined him barefoot, watching the line, admiring the patience in his hands.
“So, you know what kind of fish we could eat?”
Georg looked at her as if she had sprouted horns. “Of course, darling.”
“And you can clean it and cook it?”
“Of course I know how to cook! If sailors weren’t able to hunt and fish as well as to prepare their own food, they would be a liability! Imagine storms, damages, anything that might strand a crew for a while! We would all die!”
“Oh, Georg, you are the ultimate aristocrat! ‘The right image’ here, ‘education and tradition’ there. And let’s not forget ‘proper clothes’ for every occasion. It does seem strange!”
“I went hunting, too. What’s the difference?”
“Oh, hunting is rather stereotypically aristocratic! My working-class self, on the other hand… I can only boil water or chop cold cuts and bread!”
Georg shook his head, amused.
He caught two sea bass, some sardines, and a curious, oversized shrimp. Maria fell asleep while watching him clean and season or salt the fish.
“My love, are you wearing your hat all the time? You get tired very easily under this sun. And your freckles have multiplied. I do find them adorable, but I cannot spend my time here with my hands and lips on you, as much as I would love to,” he said, smirking.
“Georg, the children are around here!” She swatted him on his calf affectionately. “Look, the boys, Louisa and Brigitta are coming!”
Louisa immediately requested that he teach them how to fish… “and also how to catch crabs. Kurt already tried, and… look!”
The poor boy had a sharp, red line bisecting his finger, punctuated by two tiny, angry dots where the pincers had really bitten in. It stung fiercely, and Kurt was trying not to howl from the pain.
Maria asked, “I am surprised it was not you trying, Louisa!”
Brigitta explained, “Louisa knows you have to first familiarise yourself with a new species before trying to interact with it.”
Georg replied, “Let me guess. Friedrich dared him.”
“Surprisingly, this time it was all his idea,” said Brigitta. “Martha and Gretl are scared by crabs. He wanted to remove a crab from them.”
The couple observed the scene: Martha and Gretl had disseminated some food rests around them on the beach, and of course the crabs were attracted by it. A few meters away from them, Liesl and Connie were animatedly discussing something. Constance was immersed in a book.
Georg sighed, and motioned for all of them to follow him back to the others. Maria swayed a little, and Georg had her pick up her hat before they left the shadow.
He sounded like he must have when trying to discipline greenhorns. “It is time for me to teach you not to litter nature, in general, and certainly not the beach. You do not want seagulls and crabs coming for your leftovers, believe me. Try to eat under one of our tarpaulins in the pine grove, and always clean up after you. And help the youngest ones. Thank you!”
Other memories were just as special in their own way.
Gretl’s and Martha’s first foray into deep(er) water while swimming, with everyone clapping for them.
Maria and Georg stealing away for a little, into deeper water, where no one could see them, to swim a little without interruptions and then to exchange a kiss. A proper, lingering kiss—the kind that made her dizzy. Then her legs wrapped around his waist in the water. Then— a splash.
“Oh, dear, I wish I had never seen that!” An embarrassed Friedrich was still covering his eyes. “I know you love each other. I don’t need proof!”
Georg coming back from his regular trip to Pola with news. “I called home, to check on Max and Elsa. Apparently, our villa is now the centre of Salzburg’s social life, especially night life. They have been organising all kinds of event, even parties after the Festival shows.”
Maria remarked, “Let’s just hope we still have a villa when we come back.”
“Oh, Elsa is reliable from this point of view. She would have him pay for any serious damage, besides. Speaking of which, Elsa says she borrowed one of your ball dresses and a pair of gloves. She says you owe her one,” and he winked.
Maria giggled and nodded as if to say That’s true.
Friedrich again. His voice had become a fickle thing lately. One moment it would ring out clear and boyish, the next a strange croak would escape, low and rumbling, as if a different person had suddenly spoken through him. He never knew which voice would appear.
Kurt found it all very funny, until Louisa told him, “It is going to happen to you, too, you clown,” Brigitta nodding encouragingly.
“And we are never forgetting what you did to poor Friedrich,” a surprisingly cynic-sounding Liesl announced. “We will remind you every-single-day,” she punctuated, tapping him on the nose.
Georg and Maria tried to comfort him. “You are growing up, Friedrich. You’ll be a man soon. That’s what happens.”
The last one, just as they were preparing to head back to the mainland, to visit the rest of Istria as well as Grado and Venice, was Maria waking up one morning in early August feeling queasy. After a few steps, her queasiness had transformed into full-fledged nausea and its unpleasant consequences.
“Well, at least we were sleeping on the island. I guess it would have been worse on the yacht, cleaning and all.”
Georg was a little worried. As he wiped her face and brushed her back, he asked, “Do you feel other symptoms? A fever coming on? Something wrong with our dinner yesterday?”
“I don’t think so, darling.”
When the exact same thing happened the following morning, Georg simply remarked, “Well, it’s a good thing we are going back to civilisation.”
Notes:
Trust Georg to know what to do when in trouble at sea. ;-)
See you around Thursday if you are reading the story as I publish.
Chapter 17: Georg’s dear girl (1928)
Summary:
11 February 1928 marks Liesl's eighteenth birthday and her debutante ball. Maria, with some help from friends, has meticulously planned the event, and a perfect night is anticipated.
A short flashback to their Istrian holiday provides context (check whether you have read the previous chapter!). Meanwhile, two friends will surprise everyone with a significant revelation.
Three elderly noblewomen—Countess Agnes von Fürstenbrunn, Countess Therese von Hohenegg, and Princess Adelheid von und zu Reichenfels-Gneis (original characters)—who met at Franz Josef and Elisabeth's court, will provide unfiltered commentary and advice, often stealing the scene.
This momentous night, however, will bring significant, and ultimately positive, changes for the von Trapp family.
A middle-length chapter full of comedy, satire, and romance.
Notes:
Cisleithania was the northern and western part of the Dual Monarchy of Austria-Hungary (Imperial crown); Transleithania were the Hungarian lands east of the Leitha River (Crown of Saint Stephen).
As those who have read about the real Trapp family may know, Georg von Trapp was a Korvettenkapitän, often abbreviated as Kapitän, a rank equivalent to a Lieutenant Commander in the Navy. This is why the film canon uses the title 'Captain'.
The Republic of Austria had abolished all aristocratic titles. However, the aristocracy and many conservative individuals continued to use them socially. Therefore, while technically Georg would be Herr Trapp and Maria Frau Trapp, this formality is often disregarded among the privileged circles depicted.In the next chapter, you will meet a character who adheres to the legal convention and addresses the von Trapps by their legal names, without titles.
Chapter Text
The doctor had told Maria in April, “Children arrive when they mean to.”
And, of course, that meant that Maria found herself round with her first child just as Liesl was turning eighteen and she had to plan her debut. It was Liesl’s eighteenth birthday, 11 February 1928—on a Saturday, perfect for her ball—, and the birth of the child was due around March, from what they could infer.
Georg had teased her. “I guess as long as we keep you far away from a train, we will be all right. Luckily, a debut ball is characterised by a clear lack of trains!”
Maria brushed her belly, and said, “As long as there are chairs and divans in abundance…”
Georg put his hand on hers, tenderly. “All you and Liesl need will be provided, you know that. I would go and pick it up myself, if needed!”
Georg had guessed it immediately on her second day of nausea on Veruda. Clearly remembering five of Agathe’s pregnancies, he was able to put all the signs together. Morning sickness; freckles; napping; Maria perfectly fine again after emptying her stomach...
He only had to check one last thing. After his Well, it’s a good thing we are going back to civilisation, he asked “Maria, tell me if I am wrong, but… you haven’t bled in a while, right?”
He could see all the stages of realisation on her face. “Oh… oh… Georg… How could I not… I thought it was just the summer, the sport… oh, Georg… our baby!” And with that, she cried of joy, jumping into his arms.
They decided to tell everyone immediately. Maria’s nausea would be difficult to hide while on holiday, and the children had already worried yesterday.
This time, at the “We have news for you” by Georg, Maria added, “and we would like to be able to communicate said news by ourselves, thank you,” shooting Liesl a look that said “don’t you dare steal our thunder this time.” Which meant that Liesl and Brigitta understood immediately, but managed to keep calm until the announcement was made.
Kurt had shouted. Friedrich had gone red and grinned a little too widely, and Louisa jabbed him in his ribs. Liesl and Brigitta had shouted, too, and Martha and Gretl had launched them into their arms, immediately triggering Georg’s protectiveness. One by one, they received the hugs and kisses of all the children, and then of Constance and Connie. They? They looked like they were walking five centimetres above the ground.
Their trip to Venice had included a visit to a local doctor, too, with an apprehensive Georg working as interpreter for his wife. Liesl and Constance also offered to let the couple spend some time by themselves in such a romantic town.
One of the first things that Georg had told Maria, drawing on his previous experience, was that there was absolutely no need to change her life, apart from more rest and more food when she felt like she needed it, and some support from him. No need at all.
“Darling, trust me, you will want me desperately in some parts of your pregnancy.”
“And what would be the difference between myself now and then?”
Now, as she was checking the preparations for the evening ball, in the later stages of her pregnancy, she understood what he had meant then. (She gave a raise to the staff for all they had to endure).
She still thought of how tender Georg was, caring for her and the baby with small gestures, with caresses and massages; of how possessively proud he was to see her carrying his child. It had made them even closer—somehow softer and fiercer at the same time.
The children were playing and reading by themselves, rather patiently. They had been rather understanding, between the new baby so visible and their oldest sister so nervous, and had kept themselves in check as much as it was possible.
Only Liesl was pacing the entire villa, trying to help Maria oversee the last touches for her debut. She was checking herself in all the mirrors, checking whether the ballroom was still standing, practicing bows and dance moves.
“Liesl, as long as you have revised the guest list and the books we have compiled together with all the details, your job here is done. We are just giving some directions to the staff, and awaiting the non-resident staff. It will all be fine. Go to your siblings!” Maria wanted Liesl to be calmer.
“Ooooh… all of my friends are coming, and then there is all that high society… I am so nervous!”
Georg cut in. “Which is why you should be with your siblings, have fun with them, distract yourselves, and maybe rest a little in the afternoon. We will go rest a little bit ourselves, in a while.”
Liesl seemed to listen, although her nervousness was still visible in the way she walked.
And Georg, as soon as the staff was gathered and briefed, led Maria back to their bedroom, where they had a light lunch, he massaged her legs and back, and loved her, before falling asleep together, spooning, she still wrapped in his arms.
Shortly before 18:30, when the doors would be officially open, Liesl was once again pacing in the hall, while the other six siblings were trying not to look and sound too excited, but failing miserably. They even hurried to kiss Liesl, Papa and Mama again. Friedrich took particular care to be very gallant with his big sister.
Liesl’s mood was not different. She was muttering first, then screaming “Oh, mein Gott, oh, mein Gott, OH MEIN GOTT—this is actually happening! “, to the amusement of everyone else.
Maria pulled her to her, and said, “Come here, darling. Of course this is happening.” Georg offered his arm on the other side, as to practice their later entrance. Maria then addressed the children: “Remember, you can stay here in the hall and politely greet people who greet you, maybe answer their questions. But as soon as we serve dinner, you are going to bed. Betty and I will check on you.”
“And don’t embarrass your sister, or she will have her revenge when it’s your time,” added Georg, always the strategist. Six serious nods followed.
Liesl remarked, “Actually, many of my friends are complaining because Friedrich is not allowed to participate.”
Friedrich had had another growth spurt and was now taller than his father, resembling him a lot, with just a touch of Agathe that made his features more delicate, and a head full of light blonde hair that both Liesl and Louisa envied. The girls had started noticing the handsome sixteen-year-old, despite his natural reserve. And they had told Liesl, repeatedly.
Maria replied, “Elsa would have probably organised her first political rally if I ever dared allow Friedrich to the ball at sixteen, or something like that.” Georg cackled.
Elsa and Max had helped them tremendously by doing what they always did best: connecting people, spreading the news, giving advice. They would also host Liesl for a few evenings in Vienna when Maria could not, between the last stages of her pregnancy and the time after the birth.
Elsa, who came down the stairs in that exact moment, still went by her old, powerful name, Baroness von Schräder, but she had been legally Frau Detweiler for a while now.
The two souls had recognised the same hunger for societal power and shine, the same skills in working society and organising events; the same love for cutting remarks; thus, during their long summer together, they had thought that, if a friendly arrangement based on companionship, not passion, must be, it could be them just as well.
They had a very open arrangement too: they were explicitly free to live their own life, but they agreed to share some of that life.
At their wedding toast, a very intimate event for selected people and a few gossips, Maria had to cackle (and Georg to feign indignation) as Max announced, “I would like to thank the late Baron von Schräder and the ever-generous Republican forces in Austria for all those lovely estates in the Wachau and that money. We will surely make good use of them!”
Back to the present, Elsa looked at the hall, seemed satisfied, and offered the nervous debutante, “Wouldn’t you want to practice the receiving line? Look, Max is coming down, too.”
And so, Liesl, radiant in her debutante dress, stood at the head of the line, Georg beside her, tall and proud in his tails, and then Maria sitting in the most elegant chair they could find, the gown designed for her trying to combine elegance and practicality (Elsa had the worst headaches helping Maria finding the proper solution).
Elsa ordered Liesl, “Announce Uncle Max, let me hear it.”
“Herr Detweiler, it is a pleasure to welcome you to my debutante ball.” She offered her hand for him to kiss.
“Good, now introduce me as if I were one of your friends.”
“Aunt Elsa, it’s a delight to see you here!”
“Dear, no girl under seventy says ‘delight’ unless she’s hiding something.”
Max barbed, “All clearly rehearsed in your head. Not even with friends will you let someone properly announce you as Frau Detweiler,” and scoffed teasingly.
Then the guests started arriving, and Liesl felt her heart beat at a maddingly high rate.
The first ones were a gaggle of girls from Liesl’s school, their eyes widening and their giggles escalating as they spotted Friedrich lingering at the edge of the hall. One of them, her cheeks flushing a deep red, curtsied with exaggerated grace when she took in both how dashing Friedrich was and how magnetic and equally dashing his father, the Captain with his polished smile, was; therefore, she called the latter 'Herr von Trapp' before correcting herself to 'Herr Korvettenkapitän,' to her obvious discomfiture and Maria’s poorly hidden amusement.
Then some important personalities of Salzburg and Vienna arrived; many members of high society —Baron and Baroness von Ebberfeld, Count and Countess von Eugenstadt, Count von Montecuccoli degli Erri —a former comrade-in-arms of her father, too—. Then came three rather outspoken representatives of the old Austrian aristocracy, survivors of the last century, and good friends: Countess Agnes von Fürstenbrunn, Countess Therese von Hohenegg, and Princess Adelheid von und zu Reichenfels-Gneis. Then the Auerspergs, the Whiteheads, Aunt Hede, Princess Yvonne, Aunt Constance and Cousin Connie. Other comrades in arms of her father— Knežević, Schlosser. Other friends from school. Everyone started mingling and enjoying light refreshments and drinks.
After the long receiving line, it was time, and everyone in the Trapp family was suddenly moved and nervous. As the children tried not to be loud in moving forward to peek at what would happen, Maria moved to her reserved divan, put in the ballroom just for her, to let her participate despite the advanced stage of her pregnancy.
There was a call for silence, highlighted by a flourish from the orchestra, and the Konzertmeister announced that the dances would soon begin, opened by the evening’s debutante, Elisabeth von Trapp, turned eighteen that very day.
Georg approached Liesl, offering her his arm with a proud and loving expression. All eyes were on them as they moved to the centre of the ballroom floor. As they passed Maria, they paused: Liesl and Maria exchanged a kiss, and Maria wished her good luck, not just for that evening but for her life. Georg kissed Maria’s hand—more of a private promise than a public gesture—before guiding Liesl to the centre.
They struck into position. Maria thought she and Georg alike would soon burst into tears. He had a fleeting look of wistfulness combined with pride.
The Konzertmeister announced, “And now, Herr Korvettenkapitän von Trapp will lead his daughter, Elisabeth, in the first waltz of the evening, to the strains of the magnificent ‘Kaiser-Walzer’ by Johann Strauss the Younger.” The first notes of the first waltz tempo of the composition struck up, and Maria let out a few tears. Even the six siblings, peeping from the hall, felt the weight of the moment.
Maria felt, rather than saw, someone sitting beside her. It was Countess von Fürstenbrunn, who commented, “that handsome, tall blonde boy of yours looks like he might cry.” Then she looked at her, and added, “Oh, well, it seems like he has taken from you, even though you are not his real mother. Speaking of which, when is the next von Trapp expected, my dear Baroness?”
“March, Countess.”
“Well, I suppose Therese, Adelheid, and I will often keep you company this evening. The time for us to waltz is long gone. But we are happy to support a family such as yours. I see the Captain’s flag is still hanging in the hall, even though I have heard he now attends little more than a few nostalgic meetings, and retired from active involvement in the monarchist movement.”
Maria knew very well. “Yes, he said that most circles are now interested in other goals than a Habsburg restauration, and sometimes even support policies that the Emperor would have never allowed.”
The Countess replied, “I also noticed you opened with the Emperor Waltz.”
“We chose it together, to honour the world in which Liesl was born as well as my husband’s past.”
“It was a nice touch, Baroness.” She squeezed Maria’s hand affectionately.
Just in that moment, the first waltz was concluded. Liesl was immediately claimed by Max, and Maria could see she would not sit out a single dance today.
Georg approached them, and invited the Countess to dance, a knowing smile on his face.
The cheeky Countess replied, “My dear Captain, I was already old when you were born. How can you ask me to dance? Are you trying to avoid making your wife jealous? I, for one, would find the image of you leading a blushing schoolgirl and of the Baroness seething very entertaining.”
“My dear Countess, I am sure you will find the strength to dance at least a few waltzes. You can lean on me.” He then shot an amused look of understanding at Maria, and lead the noblewoman towards the centre. Maria heard the Countess say to her husband, “You will have to invite Therese and Adelheid, too!”
The three elderly women, who were friends since the time before their own debut, were always very entertaining with their completely unfiltered comments. In their case, it was not just the status, as with Yvonne, but also the fact that, as survivors of the last century and of Franz Josef and Elisabeth’s court, they had reached that stage in life where they absolutely did not care about anyone’s opinion of them.
Maria was approached, in turn, by pretty much everyone she knew, and both Countess von Hohenegg and Princess Adelheid came to sit next to her for a while before being invited for a waltz by her husband.
Elsa and Yvonne came to compliment her for the marvellous beginning. “My dear, you can now stand on your own feet! You don’t need me anymore, unless for spreading the word! This evening is everything it should be! I am thrilled about the planned shift to modern music later in the night. Oh, and Liesl is simply the most beautiful and graceful girl this evening!”
Yvonne made surprisingly no embarrassing remarks, and Elsa was being incredibly kind. Yes, the evening would be perfect, and Maria felt relaxed and satisfied, knowing how much Liesl wanted it and deserved it. She watched Liesl's flushed cheeks as she danced with Count von Montecuccoli. A flicker of protective concern crossed her mind. What was that charming rogue saying to her daughter? Georg would have something to say about this, she thought, a small smile playing on her lips.
It was then time to go to dinner, and Maria kissed quickly the children goodnight before leaving them in the hands of Betty. It was not meant to be a long dinner, considering the youth of many of the guests, and for that she was thankful, since in her current condition she had to eat small portions but more frequently.
After dinner, they went back to the ballroom for more waltzes, and she had the opportunity to mingle with other people who came to her to congratulate or to keep her company.
She often had to remind Georg that this was Liesl’s evening, and that he had to take care of their daughter, not of her, but the dear man kept checking on her, either directly or with his stare from across the room. She wondered how long she would manage to stay awake.
Countess von Fürstenbrunn had come back to sit beside her. “Dear, this evening is simply marvellous! I hadn’t seen anything like this in decades! Even those from other spheres seem to fit in splendidly!”
“Thank you, Countess. We have worked long on this event. We wanted Liesl to have the perfect evening she deserves.” Maria felt a little bit of discomfort from sitting so long on an elegant divan, so she asked the Countess to help her adjust the cushion behind her back. She had tried to move, but a flicker of tightness had convinced her to resort to external help.
The two women sat in companionable silence for a while, with just a few comments here and there on Liesl’s joy, on how many men were already considering courting her, and how many of these men would be threatened by Georg in some way.
The Countess was still admiring the charming and elegant scene before her, happy to keep company to the poor heavily pregnant Baroness von Trapp, when the latter interrupted her praise.
“Countess, I know I might sound rude, but I am asking you to stand up. Possibly in a calm and poised manner, as to avoid drawing attention. And if you could call someone from the staff, if you see someone…”
“My dear girl, what is happening? Something wrong?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘wrong’ per se, but… I guess you would appreciate not having your gown ruined.”
“You are not making any sense, dear. Are you sure you should still be here at the party and not be resting, in your condition?”
“Oh, I agree, I am going to leave this party immediately. Well, as quickly as I can do it without drawing any attention. As I said, no one is going to ruin Liesl’s debut. Not even her new brother or sister!”
The Countess looked at her, and blinked a few times, then a hand flew to her lace collar, a faint gasp escaping her lips. “My dear, are you telling me that…”
“…the new member of the von Trapp family really wants to join the party, yes. My waters just broke. I hope the upholsterer can manage this vintage velvet!!” Maria’s right hand instinctively shot to her abdomen, turning then her gesture in a caress for her child. Fortunately, her adrenaline helped her continue her plan of not disrupting Liesl’s debut.
“Don’t you worry, Baroness! I will just fetch a footman at once.” The Countess hurried off with surprising speed for someone who had graced Empress Elisabeth’s events.
Luckily, that someone the Countess called was Betty—sweet, practical Betty—, who promptly suggested to enact the pouring of champagne as to excuse the removal of the wet-stained divan.
After ‘the most embarrassing set-up of all Cisleithania’, according to the Countess (“Transleithania definitely stooped lower. Mark my words.”), and its miraculous success (possibly due to the free-flowing champagne and the general merriment of the evening), Maria explained in a low whisper the next steps. “I am going to the room we prepared. Betty, call Dr Brunner. Tell no one. Liesl’s evening must not be disrupted! Tell my husband I simply felt tired and went to sleep, if he asks.”
The Countess offered Maria her arm, and accompanied her towards the stair, saying “I will keep you company for a while, dear. I have been through it myself; I can definitely help you before the doctor arrives”. As they did so, they crossed again Princess Adelheid and Countess von Hohenegg.
“Where are you going with the Baroness, Agnes?”
In conspiratorial tones, Countess von Fürstenbrunn explained in a whisper. “The Baroness’s waters just broke. I am accompanying her to the designed room, so that she does not disturb her daughter’s debut. I thought I don’t have much to lose by keeping her a little bit of company.”
“Good god, Agnes! We will come with you! After all, this is the realm of youth. Not ours. A pity: I am yet to see Captain von Trapp dancing with one of those schoolgirls, or Herr Detweiler being threatened by one of the schoolgirls’ fathers.”
At Maria’s perplexed stare, Countess von Hohenegg replied: “Oh, dear, do not worry, we all birthed enough children to help you.”
Princess Adelheid remained unconvinced. “But why the doctor? Is this a modern thing? What happened to midwifes?”
“Adelheid, I am rather sure we can discuss this in private, in the birthing room!”
And just like that, Maria was led to the room they had prepared for the birth a few weeks ago, following the doctor’s advice: no carpet, few pieces of furniture, and two basins. Helga and Trudi came, too, and hurried to bring all the most important accessories, as well as to fill the basins with water.
The room was furnished with a four-poster bed, where the posters would offer support for a standing Maria, before the time came for her to lay down. Three chairs were also brought for the noblewomen, who had asked for them directly to a bewildered-looking staff member.
Maria immediately made use of one of the blankets Trudi had brought her, wrapping herself in it and asking for assistance in removing her ball dress. Helga handed her a large old nightgown to put on. She then ordered the maids to go back to the ball, to avoid drawing attention, and begged not to say a word that could alarm anyone. She repeated that her husband was only to be told she went to sleep if he asked where she was. She instructed them to tell the staff to watch for Dr Brunner’s arrival, and to let him in through the kitchen.
And just in that moment, she felt the first of many cramps. It did not feel much different than some of the things she had experienced during her bleeding, except for a tightening sensation in her uterus. She took a deeper breath.
She leaned on the next poster, her hand on her abdomen, and she talked to the baby. “You really want to join the party, right, my little one?”
Princess Adelheid replied, “Oh, dear, even though the evening is going splendidly, if this is your first child, I am rather sure he or she will not be here soon. Even the most scandalous guests will have gone home by then.”
Another contraction tightened Maria’s abdomen. “I think this child is a she, probably with the same love for balls and romance as her oldest sister,” jested Maria, a small smile playing on her lips.
Hohenegg observed, “It’s good that you are already having contractions. I think climbing up the stairs must have helped. Not everyone agrees, but some say a bit of walking can get things moving. Though others swear by bed rest… Who knows, Adelheid, maybe the child will be born in time for a last toast to the baby and the mother!”
“Therese, let us not exaggerate. Baroness, can you walk a little? Try.”
Maria walked carefully around the bed, her movements slow and deliberate, leaning on furniture between contractions. She thought about the marvel that it was, her own child with Georg being born. She ignored for a while the three elderly noblewomen chatting.
Certainly, the timing could have been better. If Georg for some reason wanted to check on her, the secret would be out, and the attention would inevitably shift from Liesl to the new child.
Of course, the timing could also have been worse. She might have broken her waters on a train… She chuckled, remembering her joke with Georg.
Princess Adelheid addressed her. “How do you feel, Baroness? Thinking about your first child with the Captain?”
“Oh, I am rather thrilled to meet him or her!”
“I assume this will look more like routine to your husband.”
“Adelheid! Have you seen how those two looked at each other? I am sure your husband will be thrilled too, and also very worried until the child isn’t here.” Hohenegg was rather scandalised by the Princess’s remark.
Fürstenbrunn had some strong opinions: “Mark my words: we should have made the von Trapps our ruling house. Soon there will be eight of them. If we had, we would still have at least the Austrian Empire, and an abundance of heirs. I am not too sure about the Crown of Hungary, but maybe letting go of Transleithania would have been the better option anyway…”
“Agnes, such talk would have gotten you a charge of treason just a few years ago!”
“Well, I will say what I want! What are you going to do, bring Emperor Karl back from Madeira? Send him a telegram?”
“Agnes, should we worry for your sanity? Emperor Karl died in 1922; we are in 1928!” said the Princess with genuine care in her voice.
“Oh, dear. So, who is the new Emperor?”
“There is no Emperor, I thought we had already established that!”
“Well, let us put it this way: if Captain von Trapp and some of our finest men were to wage a war and restore the Empire, who would be the Emperor?”
Maria, battling with another contraction, thought to herself Georg von Trapp is not leading anyone. He is minding his soon-to-be-eight children here with me.
Hohenegg answered simply “Otto, his firstborn. You remember, our last Kronprinz?”
“I still think Otto wouldn’t be a terrible Emperor,” said Fürstenbrunn.
“Otto couldn’t even ride properly until he was ten,” scoffed Hohenegg. “The Empire needs riders, not readers.”
Adelheid gave a loud sniff. “Better a reader than a gambler or a womaniser, though I admit I’m still not over Rudolf.”
Time passed, and Dr Brunner was still not to be seen. On the other hand, Maria’s contractions were increasingly strong, and she had to lean completely on a poster, a faint lament escaping her.
“Oh, poor dear. It seems like walking helped. It is going fast for a first birth,” remarked the Princess.
Maria’s answer was a louder cry. It was definitely going fast, although she reflected briefly on the meaning of “fast”. Was she ready for the worst of it, possibly without either doctor or Georg? On the other hand, the sooner she met her new child, the sooner all this would be over. And, well, she’d meet her first child, which was the most wonderful thought she might have right now!
Her musings were interrupted by yet another thrilling conversation among the noblewomen.
“Adelheid, didn't you once meet Countess Troll-Borostyáni? I heard she was present when Empress Elisabeth gave birth to her first three children,” asked Fürstenbrunn.
“Indeed, I did.”
After a silence that interrupted the lively exchange (but not Maria’s suffering), Fürstenbrunn added, in her best nudging tone: “And… any revelations that might be useful at the present moment?”
“Oh, dear, you will have to forgive me, there is no one as faithful to the Crown as myself, but… Empress Elisabeth… that physique… it was not made to give birth, and she was not meant for motherhood either, and we all paid dearly for it. Not like our Baroness von Trapp here.” She cast a critical eye over the labouring woman. "Though I must say, in my day, we didn't make such a fuss about the whole affair."
It was, undeniably, a useful revelation, just not useful to Maria.
Hohenegg chimed in. “Do you remember how Archduchess Sophie took charge immediately? Or so they say, but I could believe it. Now there was a woman who understood duty! That ilk of women might have saved the Empire!”
Then it was back to the Princess. “Now that I think of it… I remember something useful. Many at court discounted it as quackery, but it seems like there might be some wisdom in what the simple folk says.”
“We are all ears, Adelheid,” said Hohenegg sarcastically.
“Baroness, did you join with your husband recently? Passionate stares and all… if you did, some women say it does help speed up the process.”
Maria thought that she might as well call Yvonne, too, and have her add her two cents. Her face flushed, and she let out a lament that bordered on a scream, another powerful contraction gripping her.
The Princess insisted, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “I am afraid I didn’t catch that, my dear.”
Oh, heavens! Would they even remember it tomorrow, if she told them? “I… might… have… this afternoon… oooohh!”
The three women exchanged a few looks of assent, and sentenced, “Well, now everything is clearer.”
Time passed, and still no doctor. Maria’s pain increased progressively. Her back ached, too, but the women told her to keep standing by quoting all possible births they had experienced either in first person or as witnesses as evidence for their stance on the matter. If her pains were not this strong already, Maria was sure she would have developed a headache, too.
Maria interrupted the mayhem with a loud moan. “Ohhhh… I swear I am never going to let him do this to me again!”
“Oh, no, no, dear. It is not even two hours into your labour; it is too early for that kind of complaint. That usually comes when the pain really is unbearable, which is much later. If you are already to this point, what will you do in a few hours?”
“Besides, my dear, no one is going to believe it. Who would not let handsome Captain von Trapp in her bed? Agnes, your husband was a rake, but he was insanely handsome too!”
“Why do you think I was constantly pregnant?”
Where was the doctor?
Maria was only half-listening. Her mind had become a cloud of pain and anticipation, wrapped around the rhythm of her body. Still, she caught pieces of the ongoing aristocratic debate wafting in her direction.
Finally, an out-of-breath Dr Brunner appeared, with Betty escorting him. “I apologise, Baroness. I got caught up in an emergency. Some political brawl went bad, and even though I now practise as gynaecologist only, they begged me to help caring for the wounded, before the police would get involved” He inspected the room, took note of the water, checked the temperature and called for warmer water, pulled out soap and disinfectant from a bag and opened his suitcase.
He then regarded the three noblewomen as if they were some strange beings.
“Grüß Gott, the ladies. To what do we owe your presence?”
“We were assisting the Baroness, waiting for you,” said the Princess.
“We all have experience in the matter,” added Countess von Fürstenbrunn.
As the doctor urged the noblewomen to leave the room, Maria could hear the younger people at the party sing Die Männer sind alle Verbrecher, probably sung along with the record (she could not hear the music, and she doubted the orchestra would play such a tune.) The girls, especially, were so loud that the lyrics were clearly audible. It must have been the time they set to switch to modern music, for the joy of the younger people. She felt some relief at the thought that, even if Georg left the ball now, Liesl’s evening would most likely not be ruined.
Princess Adelheid let out her last blow. “See, Baroness? Perfect song. We were just saying,
Die Männer sind alle Verbrecher The men, they're all such criminals,
ihr Herz ist ein finsteres Loch their heart is a shadowy den,
hat tausend verschied'ne Gemächer with a thousand different rooms within,
aber lieb, aber lieb sind sie doch. but loveable, oh loveable they are in the end.
She could hear the Countesses in the corridor ask, “How do you know these songs, Adelheid?” and “What are they playing now?”
And yes, the song suited the situation perfectly.
Luckily, after this moment of lightness, probably offered also as a reprieve for the orchestra, she heard what seemed to be a lively ragtime tune, one of those they had planned together. Amidst her screams, she tried to think of her memory of Georg’s introduction to the genre (and to dancing it with his lively wife), and to imagine Liesl having fun (possibly not with some dashing bachelor former comrade-in-arms of her father).
The doctor, seemingly satisfied with his own preparation, started issuing orders. “Baroness, I would like someone of the staff wipe the floor, again. I want the room and our persons to be kept as clean as possible. I also think it is time to wake up your housekeeper. And, most important of all: if you want to lay down, this is the moment, when you still can. Otherwise, you will give birth standing instead of lying down.”
Maria obliged, trying to lay down fighting the pain, the tightness, and the back pain. She then waited for a staff member to appear. It was once again Betty, who was worried sick for her and went immediately to wake Frau Schmidt, then sent Helga to wipe the floor. “Frau Schmidt has been instructed not to enter with dirty shoes, so I trust we will not need to wipe it too often.”
Maria wasn’t sure. A house full of guests; seven affectionate and lively children; a husband who would definitely worry a lot for her. Anything could happen, she thought as a rather spirited Frau Schmidt appeared and started taking orders from Dr Brunner.
Meanwhile, the three elderly noblewomen had rejoined the ball, and observed almost horrified the spirited dances on modern tunes, from jazz to ragtime to Schlager, commenting on syncopation and less than respectable movements.
“Agnes, you remember how scandalous it was when it was suddenly allowed to dance the waltz in a more… intimate way. Some things never change,” observed Hohenegg.
The Princess wondered, “I seem to remember we had something to do before we went to bed. Although, with the Baroness in labour in our wing, I am not sure we will rest much.”
Fürstenbrunn remembered. “The Baroness! That was the thing! She is in labour! Where is the Captain?”
They searched for him, and found him as tired as the father of a debutante could be, especially when his wife had retired to sleep, or so he thought.
Fürstenbrunn asked for a private audience with the three of them, and then told him the news.
“Captain, we are glad to inform you that we assisted your wife during her labour for about… two hours, I think? But the doctor is with her, now. Everything will be all right. Except for our nightly rest. You did put us in the same wing as the birthing chamber.”
Fürstenbrunn's words hung in the air. Georg's smile faltered, replaced by a stunned expression. His eyes darted between the three women, as if searching for a hidden punchline. "Assisted… my wife… in labour?” he repeated slowly, a furrow deepening between his brows. He blinked. “For two hours? And no one thought to inform me? And you, ladies… you were assisting?” His tone remained polite, but a thread of bewildered incredulity was unmistakable.
“Baroness’s orders. The debut must not be disturbed. But it seems like it is not a problem anymore. The polite part of the evening has ended. We were planning on retiring. Should we accompany you to the birthing chamber?”
Georg's feet were already shifting, his weight distributing as if he were about to bolt, but he checked himself, forcing a nod to the noblewomen. “Thank you, my ladies. I think I… I have to go to her!” His eyes, though still polite, held a deep intensity, a focus that bypassed the women before him and seemed to be already with Maria. And with that, he ran.
Georg obviously barged in the room, only to be met with Frau Schmidt’s and Dr Brunner’s glares, as well as with a visibly suffering Maria.
He ignored the “Captain, we are trying to keep this room as clean as possible” of the doctor and the “Captain, you know very well you are not allowed in here” of the housekeeper, and ran to Maria, kneeling by the bed, taking her hands in one of his, and caressing her cheek with his free hand.
“My love… why didn’t you tell me? Has it been long? Are you in pain? How is it going?”
Maria's body clenched with a contraction, and she could only gasp out, “Georg... hurts... long...” Her eyes, though, softened with relief as she saw him. He was here. “So good… to see you, my love. Liesl… her debut… I didn’t want… to ruin it…”
“No one knows, except for myself. Oh, and Fürstenbrunn, Hohenegg, and Princess Adelheid, apparently.”
“I know,” Maria managed in a single breath, even forcing the corners of her mouth to twitch to show her amusement at the absurdity of it all. “The staff… too.”
Georg squeezed Maria’s hands, but Frau Schmidt pressed on. “Captain, you can go out now. We have everything under control. And we need to wipe the floor, again. You could announce the news at the ball.”
Georg was not very happy to have to obey his housekeeper, but he knew how things were done. With a kiss to Maria’s lips and a last brush of her hair away from her sweaty forehead, he went back to the ballroom, pondering what to say. Should he say something? The young people were still mingling, and enjoying the jazz music.
Then he thought that some guests would most likely not want to stay here with a woman about to give birth, and that Liesl deserved to know.
He claimed Liesl from her dance partner and took her hands, his eyes soft. “You were radiant out there, my darling. But listen—your mother has gone into labour. She didn’t want you to know until your debut was over. I think you will have a new sibling by tomorrow.”
“Oh…oh! Is she fine?”
“As fine as a woman in labour can be. You remember your siblings, I suppose.” He then approached the orchestra to signal that he had an announcement to make after the current dance. Then it was his time.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, raising a hand and bringing the room to a curious hush. “Forgive the interruption. I am pleased to inform you that Baroness von Trapp has gone into labour. As you might know, in this family we tend to do things our own way, so it’s only fitting that a new child makes its appearance as the oldest one enters society. You can stay for a little while, still. I will be upstairs.”
A ripple of surprise and delighted gasps swept the ballroom, followed by applauses and more popular expressions of joy.
Georg went up, got out of his tails and into his nightwear, then picked up a small divan and a few pillows by himself and placed it all outside Maria’s birthing chamber.
He wanted to be with her, but he didn’t dare argue with the doctor and Frau Schmidt, who were helping Maria. So, he opted to be as near to her as possible.
Betty came by to check if anything was needed, and volunteered to bring him something to read, some brandy, some water, and a blanket. She came back with Anton and all the things Georg would need.
Georg could hear the guests slowly leaving the villa. He was sure that Liesl, Elsa, and Max would be able to handle it all.
Georg wasn’t reading. He wasn’t drinking, either. The book sat untouched on the divan’s edge, the brandy cooling in his hand, the water forgotten. From time to time, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, straining to hear anything beyond the door — a voice, a cry, even a sigh. But all he caught was the soft rustle of footsteps and hushed words, and the occasional moan or scream from Maria.
He hated this part. The waiting. The uselessness. His wife in pain, the woman he adored more than breath itself — and he, cast out like an impatient schoolboy.
Time passed. He couldn’t say how much. At some point, the house had quieted. No more murmurs of departing guests, no more clinking of glasses or trailing music from the ballroom. Just silence.
Then, softly, bare feet padded across the polished floor.
Liesl appeared in the hallway, wrapped in her nightgown and robe, her hair let down and her cheeks still slightly flushed from the evening’s excitement. She blinked at the sight of him camped outside the door like a forgotten guard dog.
“You’re not sleeping,” she said gently, coming to sit beside him on the divan without waiting for an invitation.
He gave a small laugh. “Neither are you.”
“I tried. I can’t. My head’s spinning.” She leaned into him, letting her head rest on his shoulder. “I keep hearing the music in my ears. And then I think of her, in there, and... I don’t know.”
They sat in silence a moment. He placed a hand over hers.
Liesl chuckled softly, but then turned her face to look at him. “Why don’t you go in, Papa?”
He frowned. “The doctor. Frau Schmidt. The floor. Protocol. It’s all… so stupid. I’ve hauled men from the sea after we'd crippled their ships, seen them… seen what war does. But being with Maria as she brings our child into the world? Not done.”
“Protocol?” she echoed, teasing. “Your approach to protocol has always been very… peculiar. Papa, you just announced Mother’s labour in the middle of a debut.”
He chuckled despite himself.
“She wants you; I know it.” Liesl said gently. “So, go. Sit with her. Hold her hand. Who cares if it’s not the ‘done thing’? You told everyone downstairs that our family does things our way. So do it.”
He looked at her, surprised by the clarity in her voice, the strength. She sounded so much like Agathe in that moment, in her calm strength — but she had Maria’s stubborn fire, too.
“Telling me what I should do. You’ve grown up, haven’t you?” he murmured.
She smiled, squeezing his arm. “That’s why we just had my debutante ball.”
Georg stood up proud, and squeezed his hand on the door handle.
At his reappearance, the doctor commented with “Jessas, Maria und Josef,” and Frau Schmidt with “Somehow I knew that you would be back., Captain.”
Before he could utter a word, the housekeeper added, sharply, “Well, make yourself useful. Sit there, facing her —only look at her face—and hold this cloth. Wipe her forehead when I nod. Support her when she pushes. And don't you dare faint.”
Maria turned her head at the sound of his footsteps. Her face was flushed and damp, her hair clinging to her temples, but her eyes lit up like sunrise.
“You’re here,” she breathed, voice small and cracked.
“I never left,” he whispered, kneeling beside her, taking her hand again, reverently this time, as though it were holy.
She closed her eyes at a wave of pain, but her lips curved up, just faintly. “It’s good… having you… here.”
Frau Schmidt passed him a fresh cloth with the efficiency of a general. “You may dab. Gently, if you please. She is not a brass doorknob.”
Maria gave a strangled laugh that turned into a gasp. Georg leaned closer, brushing her temple. “You’re doing so well, my love.”
“So are you,” she murmured, eyes fluttering open. “You look... terrified.”
“I am terrified,” he admitted. “But you’re glorious.”
She winced again, squeezing his hand. “Then shut up... and stay.”
He kissed her knuckles. “Yes, ma’am.”
Anna von Trapp—named after Saint Anne, the mother of the Holy Virgin—was born just after seven o’clock on the morning of Sunday, 12 February 1928.
After some gentle washing and the bare minimum of tidying up, a tired and moved Georg woke up Liesl, who had collapsed on the divan outside the room, and let her be the first of the siblings to see the new sister.
“Oh, Papa, she is so beautiful! She looks like a doll! Look at that mouth! She has our hair, Papa—and your eye shape, Mama!”
An exhausted Maria smiled and said, voice cracking a little. “If you say so!”
Liesl felt that she would always feel the bond with this little sister, too, the one who wanted so much to come to her debut ball that she decided to metaphorically knock on the door during it. She kissed her delicately, then kissed her parents.
Then she went to wake up her siblings.
“Anna is here! Come and greet her!”
“Anna who?”
“Our new sister!”
And just like that, the stampede began—bare feet thudding, doors flung open, the villa awake with joy.
They were all enchanted with the littlest von Trapp, especially Gretl, who was now finally “a big sister”, and it was very difficult to explain to them that the parents and the baby now needed to sleep.
Some Tyrolean practicality helped. Betty and Anton announced the plan, to the horror of both Frau Schmidt and Dr Brunner. Betty spoke for both. “Baroness, remember: you need to rest, but also to walk. Alternate bed rest to some walks. You, Captain, or even Friedrich and Liesl, might help her. As soon as you start feeling better, reprise your life slowly.” Then turned to the seven rascals. “And you… remember that the baby and Mama need rest. Papa too, for a few days. Be good.”
Then Betty sighed, and added: “Also, I need to tell you—I’ll be needing a replacement soon. Anton and I are expecting. We’d planned to wait until after the debut, maybe even the birth, if I felt up to it. But this was our last hurrah. It’s the end of Betty the maid, I’m afraid.”
The family had started expressing their regrets and their congratulations, but unfortunately, they were beaten by Countess von Fürstenbrunn, Countess von Hohenegg, and Princess Adelheid.
“I say, Therese, in our time, a maid would have never dared.”
“If you mean being expectant, Adelheid… they dared, and they were. And not necessarily by their husbands. If you mean this lack of respect of social boundaries —I understand.”
“Well, since we’re here,” said the Princess, “let’s do what’s expected of us. Fuss over the baby, congratulate the parents, and wish the child to become a prince—or princess.”
If the three elderly noblewomen’s congratulations had been rather peculiar, so were Elsa’s and Max’s, who managed to meet the baby and the parents as they were already back in their room, freshened up and a little bit rested.
Max opened the conversation with a booming “And here we are! The godparents of glamour and good timing!”
“Too late for the drama,” Elsa added, “but just in time for the champagne. Or brandy. Or whatever you’d like to toast with.” A beat. “Caffè corretto,” she said with a smirk. “That Italian idea of pouring liquor into coffee. I thought you’d slept a little—but you still look terrible.”
She then peeped at the baby in her crib, leaning towards it in synchrony with Max, then looked at her husband, and shared her opinion.
“Oh, heavens! I thought ‘babies are usually ugly right after the birth!’. But nooo, you two managed to present a perfect doll to the world! I’m nauseated by all your perfection and sappiness.”
“Elsa, darling, did I hear you say that the baby is beautiful? Should I worry?” Max got her usual murderous stare as a reward for that.
“Anyway, we will instil in her the importance of diamonds, style, and witty repartees,” suggested Max.
Georg replied with a knowing smile. “Liesl already claimed Anna as her protégée. She thinks she will grow up to love balls, debuts, romance, and all the like—just like her. As for witty repartees, this family seems to prosper on them.” He looked at Maria while saying the last sentence, who smiled fleetingly.
Maria also added, a twinkle in her eyes, “Officially, she has other three godmothers. Important ones.”
“I heard Countess von Fürstenbrunn, Countess von Hohenegg, and Princess Adelheid talk about how they assisted you for two hours. Will this baby become an Empress? The omens point that way.” Elsa was not sure if she had to be more perplexed or thrilled.
Yvonne’s knocking interrupted the repartee.
“Excuse me—but do you still have room for one more godmother?”
Life resumed at its own rhythm, but with a different cadence.
Maria took to Anna with the same fierce devotion she had shown the older children. And yet, the experience of carrying, birthing, and nursing this child—this child born of her own body—had upturned her heart in ways she hadn't quite expected. It didn’t eclipse what came before. If anything, it deepened it. Her Anna did not subtract; she only added, and multiplied the love between them. The mystery of loving seven grieving children who had let her into their lives, of falling for their father with his impossible intensity; and now, the mystery of creating life from the love they shared, and holding that life—fragile, warm, and wholly new—against her chest: there was joy in every fluttering yawn, every contented sigh against her skin.
Georg, ever attentive, resumed walking her through the gardens once she was allowed to move freely again, their arms linked, conversations quiet. He would glance at her when she wasn’t looking, as though still in awe that she could hold such softness and strength at once. Maria was still in awe of the moment he had held Anna for the first time, tears spilling freely as he looked between mother and child. It had been more than relief. It had been wonder. She could still feel the warmth of his kiss on her temple, the quiet reverence in his eyes—her strong, composed Georg, undone by joy.
Two months later, the nights had grown less chaotic—not because the household was quieter, but because Maria had healed, and the two had found their rhythm again. After weeks of gentle companionship and small, wordless gestures, they had returned fully to one another. Slowly, joyfully. The passion had never gone, only waited. And this time, he made sure to be cautious again. Just in case.
One morning, just before spring knocked at the windows, Georg was found in one of the sitting rooms with Anna asleep on his chest, just watching the fire.
Liesl, already awake peeked in, and for once, said nothing. She simply sat beside him, and leaned her head against his shoulder—exactly as she had done that night outside the birthing room. She admired the baby, caressed gently her peachy cheek, then stretched her finger, letting the baby’s tiny fingers curl around it.
It was a house full of voices and movement. But in that moment, it was just them. A father, a daughter, and the newest little one.
Betty’s leaving left a noticeable silence in the house. She had been more than a maid—she had been a steady presence through the years of the family in Salzburg, even before Maria. Anton, ever discreet, packed their things with quiet pride, while the children drew cards and sang Tyrolean farewell songs (taught by Maria) that devolved into giggles, chuckles, and cooing.
Maria kissed her in tears, and Georg promised to write if ever she missed the chaos. Betty merely smiled, placing her hand on her belly.
“I think I’ll have enough chaos soon enough, Baroness.”
“As soon as you leave, you can call me Maria, again, you know. And we will visit you. Tyrolean pride, you know. Your little one will be part Tyrolean, too—heart and all.” Anton was glowing at that declaration.
“We will just don’t’ tell Elsa, or Frau Schmidt,” glossed Georg.
But Betty leaving, and Anna growing, led to an interesting discussion with Georg. They were strolling in the garden, pushing the pram.
“As we often say, Agathe was very much fixed in her own ‘old ways’. Yes, she spent a lot of time with the children, and we definitely were raising them together; but we also had nannies and governesses to help. I appreciate that we are raising our children ourselves, but now that we have our little Anna, too, it might sometimes take a strain on us. There’s us: friends, partners, lovers. Then there’s the older children: helping them in their studies, playing with them, spending time with them. Then there is Anna, and there will be more,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “and babies and little children need more attention.”
“I understand, Georg. I also would be careful in asking the older children to care for the little ones too much. I would never want them to resent the younger ones.”
“They are all kind-hearted. They would never do. And Liesl and Brigitta always swoon about how romantic we are.”
“Nevertheless, I would like to be careful. I think we should simply hire an additional person, who would then help both the staff with simple tasks, when needed, but also be our nanny when required. Not a traditional nanny. Someone kind, dependable—but who understands her role is to support, not replace us. I wouldn’t want the children to remember her more than me.”
“Maria, are you jealous?”
“Of course I am jealous. Of you all. That doesn’t mean I’ll go brooding around or stomping around like a dramatic hero,” she added with a grin. “But it’s there, all the same. I was also thinking of contacting women who might be interested in helping on an hourly basis—similarly to our non-resident staff, just with fewer hours, I suppose. Maybe it could be a way to help other families in the neighbourhood save something for their children’s education—to add to the father’s income.”
Georg paused, a smile playing on his lips – a blend of tenderness at her words and a thoughtful consideration of her suggestion. “My wife: jealous and modern. We will try and see if the idea finds resonance. I will also work with Hans on pens to create a safer space when we need to concentrate on other things but want to keep Anna with us.”
And they found the right formula, after all. They started by looking for someone who would be interested in a role that might involve not just looking after Anna, and maybe Gretl and Martha on occasion, but also helping in the household, with the possibility of working some nights when they had plans.
But Maria also remembered that the children had to be involved and consulted, and Georg understood.
“Children, we hope you are not worrying because we are hiring someone who will be a little bit of a nanny and household help. We are not thinking of entrusting you to nannies and governesses. We are not going back on our promises. We love you, and we want to be your parents. But we also need to manage the estate, the family companies, and to have enough time for all eight of you as well for ourselves. And this without asking the oldest of you to step in all the time with the youngest ones. So, we are just hiring some help.”
The seven children looked at them a little surprised and also amused.
Liesl was holding little Anna, as she loved doing. She kissed her baby sister, and said with a smile, “Mamá Agathe had a nanny and a governess. We know it does not automatically mean you want to neglect us.”
Gretl ran to Maria nonetheless, and hugged her. “But it’s still good to hear it, Mama!”
Louisa nodded. “Especially that you tell us things. That we talk. That we know why you do or don’t do things.”
Kurt giggled. “We talk, and we cuddle, and we play!” And Kurt ran to Maria as well: at thirteen, he still enjoyed cuddling like a younger boy, and Maria was rather happy of it. All of the children were affectionate with their parents; but she knew Kurt had suffered very much for those four years of grief and distance from his father, and she was glad to make up for it.
Georg crossed his arms. “I feel rather jealous,” he said in half-jest, and he was hugged by Martha and Brigitta, as the other three laughed and tickled little Anna.
Anna, in Liesl’s arms, let out a tiny squeal and flailed a chubby hand, grabbing at a lock of Liesl’s hair and at one of Louisa’s, for good measure. Friedrich blew a raspberry on the baby’s belly, and Anna giggled in that way that only babies can do. It made everyone laugh again.
And so, in the bustle of laughter and baby giggles, with arms wrapped around them and hearts full, Maria and Georg felt once again that rare and quiet certainty: they were building something that would last. A new chapter was beginning—not without its challenges, but filled with warmth, love, and just the right amount of organised chaos.
Chapter 18: Buying the matches to light a fire (1929)
Summary:
This chapter chronicles a period of significant transition and growth for the Trapp family. As Anna turns one and the older children, like Liesl, Friedrich, and Louisa, begin to forge their own paths towards adulthood and careers, Georg and Maria delight in their developing personalities, mutual affection, and burgeoning dreams for the future. Concurrently, Maria fully embraces her role as Baroness, launching a scholarship and finding profound satisfaction in her established place in society.
However, the blissful summer is followed by the Wall Street Crash. Recognising the profound global implications—from economic hardship to the rise of extremist ideologies—Maria and Georg proactively seek out Maria's old friend, Viktor Wladek, for a deeper understanding and to prepare their family to help those in need, even as their own family continues to grow.
Notes:
This chapter serves as a crucial turning point, a 'bridge' chapter if you will, focusing on significant transitions within the family and the wider world. While it might seem shorter than others, it's where the clock for monumental historical events truly starts ticking.
Get ready for the next chapter, where the children really begin to shine and steal the spotlight – I promise you'll adore them! Don't worry, Maria and Georg aren't going anywhere; after all, they'll never stop parenting their ever-growing brood!
Chapter Text
11 February 1929
They were all together in the main sitting room, talking about the future after congratulating Liesl on her 19th birthday. Even Anna, who in a few hours would turn one year old, was on the divan, asleep and surrounded by her family. Maria gently tucked the blanket closer around the baby’s belly, while Georg brushed a few silky strands from Anna’s forehead, both of them quiet for a moment—struck by how fast time was passing. Their baby was one; Liesl had been training as a secretary, translator, and interpreter since September.
“So, Liesl, are you satisfied with the path you have taken? Corresponding in foreign languages and translating surely fits your skills. Just don’t use the word ‘typewriting’ too much when Elsa is here,” Maria quipped, sipping her herbal tea with a half-smile.
Liesl leaned forward on the arm of the settee and chuckled. “It’s harder than I thought. So much precision is required. But I like it, so far. I’m glad my English and Italian were already good—conversationally, at least. My writing, on the other hand…” She rubbed the back of her neck, sheepishly.
Maria reached out and briefly squeezed Liesl’s wrist in reassurance. “It’ll come. You’ve always had a good ear. The hands will follow.”
“A rather different birthday than last year, right?” Georg asked.
“Well, I cannot complain. The Officers’ Ball in Vienna last month was spectacular! And I will be ready soon with my training. It’s not like school, years and years of attending.”
Friedrich straightened a little, as if rehearsing for adulthood. “I’m going to study medicine. I know I’ve still got over a year of school, but I’m rather sure. It’ll be a long path.” He folded his hands over his knee, trying to appear calm—but the pride was clear in his voice.
Louisa smiled sideways at him. “I want to study medicine too. I used to be more interested in biology, but it would be harder for me as a woman to actually work in the field, at least before going into research. That’s what I want to do—study and write.” She reached over and nudged Friedrich with her elbow, not teasing, but affirming.
Georg chuckled, a soft pride creeping into his voice. “The one at sixteen only dreamed of balls and romance, the other wants to write medical books! And yet, you’re now inseparable sisters.”
Brigitta looked up from her sketching—she had found a new passion, and loved doing it even while talking. “It’s almost as if we were eight different people, Papa,” she said dryly, “and yet a loving family. Can you believe it?”
Maria guffawed, nearly spilling her tea. “Georg, this one has your sarcasm.”
Kurt leaned against the side of the fireplace, arms crossed but face thoughtful. “Maybe Anna will repair flying cars instead of our ordinary ones. Who knows what the future will bring?”
Gretl, cross-legged on the carpet and drawing something elaborate with coloured pencils, didn't look up. “I think floating cars would be cooler.”
Martha, who had been sitting close to Georg’s side the whole time, leaned her head against his shoulder with mock indignation. “You’re only saying that because Papa was in the Navy.”
Georg kissed the top of her head without answering. Maria caught his eye, and they shared a look full of affection—and a hint of amusement.
Their children were all growing up. They had always had strong personalities, but now those personalities were beginning to stretch out, define themselves. Watching them come into their own—slowly, quietly— was like watching a garden bloom in late spring.
And soon, she thought, she would be watching Anna find her own rhythm and voice. Perhaps another child, too, if the Lord saw fit.
How different was her love for her husband from her love for the children! With Georg, she was deeply grateful to know him—to count on him. With the children, it was a love full of possibility—of not knowing yet, but waiting with wonder. Two different kinds of devotion, both equally vast.
Another great change in her life had less to do with the children. After finding her own place in society —without ever compromising her or Georg’s principles—and after settling into the usual charity engagements for a woman of her standing, she had launched her own scholarship. It was aimed at children from the working class and petty bourgeoisie across the entire Land Salzburg—or, as Elsa had put it with a smirk, “for the lower classes of the province.”
It was not much in financial terms, perhaps. And yet, it helped children focus on their schooling, giving them hope of one day reaching a future they might not have otherwise imagined. A few doctors, lawyers, teachers, and professors from less privileged backgrounds would one day owe their paths, in part, to her.
At the gala where the scholarship was officially launched—and which Georg had insisted she name after her maiden name, Maria Rainer—he had looked at her with unmistakable pride, affection… and desire.
Elsa and Max, too, had been moved, each in their own way.
“We told you being a Baroness would grow on you,” Elsa had said, raising her glass. “You’re now an accomplished, if admittedly eccentric, society lady. The way Agathe would have been. But she was born into it. You weren’t. And yet here you are. An incredible woman, Maria.”
Georg, who had loved both women, didn’t quite agree with the comparison. Maria was not like Agathe. She was her own kind of woman, and he would not have her any other way.
He didn’t say those words aloud—but he showed her, in the language only they spoke.
Later that evening, away from the crowd and gilded ceremony, he had pressed her up against the marble and stone wall in a secluded corridor of the Alte Residenz. His mouth claimed hers, muffling laughter and sighs and moans, as their hands roamed urgently—reverently. They played the roles of Baron and Baroness when they had to. But in moments like this, they shed all performance.
They were simply Georg and Maria—lovers, partners, rebels in their own right. And they were very much alive.
March 1929
Maria and Georg paused at the door, quietly taking in one of the most endearing scenes of the year.
All the children were gathered in Liesl’s sitting room: books open, heads bent, some dutifully sitting at the desk, some others sprawled on cushions, others perched on the edge of the divan. In the middle of it all sat Friedrich, cross-legged on the carpet, with baby Anna comfortably settled on his lap like a tiny queen surveying her court.
Liesl looked up and smiled. “She’s already done the full round twice. She toddles from one of us to the next, gets a kiss, plops down somewhere, and listens to whatever we’re doing. Friedrich’s lap just happens to be her current throne.”
“I think she’s inspecting our study habits,” Brigitta added with mock seriousness. “So far, Gretl and I have passed. Kurt failed—he was doodling cars with wings again.”
“I was annotating!” Kurt protested. “They help me concentrate!”
They all laughed. Anna babbled in response, delighted by the noise and attention, and gave her signature delighted “brrrr-da!”, making everyone chuckle again.
Maria walked in and picked her up gently, brushing her soft hair back. “Time to sleep, State Inspector General. You’ve seen enough.”
A chorus of “Awwwws” and “But she was listening to me!” followed.
Georg raised an eyebrow. “She’s not going to learn Latin declensions just yet.”
“That’s what you think,” said Louisa. “She already knows how to manipulate all of us. That’s advanced rhetoric.”
Another afternoon, quieter than most, brought a different kind of charm.
Maria and Georg found Liesl curled up on the divan, Pride and Prejudice in hand. Anna was perched in her lap, wide-eyed and happy, chewing thoughtfully on a knitted bunny while her big sister read aloud in calm, deliberate English.
From the threshold, Maria called out, grinning, “Is that part of your training as a translator and interpreter?”
Liesl didn’t miss a beat. “More like Anna’s training as a well-rounded lady. I’m easing her in with Austen. Pinocchio in Italian will come next.”
“God help us when she hits Goethe,” Kurt muttered, entering behind them.
Georg settled next to Liesl and Anna, and Liesl leaned against his shoulder instinctively. Anna, thrilled by this sudden crowd, clapped her hands and shouted a delighted “Pa! Ma!”
Maria joined them and brushed a kiss over both girls’ heads. “You two are definitely Daddy’s girls. It’s shameless, really.”
Georg smirked. “You’re all my girls. And now, with seven of you surrounding me… I don’t command a thing anymore.”
Maria nudged Liesl and said conspiratorially, “Perfect moment to ask for your own car. Quick, he’s vulnerable.”
Liesl laughed. “No, Papa knows me. I’d rather have a new ball dress and a really good perfume.”
August 1929
They had returned early from their holiday in Istria to participate in the Salzburg Festival. Elsa and Max had insisted it would be good for the entire family if Georg, Maria, and Liesl kept a regular presence at the event. Last year, with Anna only six months old, they had stayed close to home by necessity; this year, their friends pressed for a compromise between sun-drenched leisure and Salzburg's glittering social stage. Just a pity, since they had finally managed to meet with Knežević, Georg’s friend from the Navy, and had to cut it short.
“You, as a high-society couple, and you, Liesl, as a young woman, need to be seen,” Elsa had declared. “And it won’t harm Max either!”
So, they saw Jedermann, and Fidelio. Everyone had liked Fidelio best.
Elsa was often out late, flitting between performances, rehearsals, and receptions. She swept into the villa after midnight smelling of perfume, cigarette smoke, and clever conversation.
One early morning—excessively warm by Salzburg’s standards—Maria, who had been tenderly awakened by her husband and wanted to make the most of the quiet hours before the children stirred, tiptoed to the kitchen in search of water and ice. The house was hushed, sunlight just beginning to lick the floor tiles.
As she rounded a corner, she stopped.
Elsa stood in the corridor, barefoot, hair tousled, her silk robe unevenly tied. She had just stepped out of Max’s room.
The two women stared at each other. A long, soft silence.
Maria tilted her head slightly, pursed her lips.
“So,” she said, voice low but not cold, “you said it was a friendly agreement? An alliance for power, shine, and something-something?”
Elsa blinked. “It is an alliance for power. And a friendly agreement. No conditions attached. We just sometimes choose to... enjoy ourselves. You see, Max… well, unlike my first husband, he actually knows what he’s doing. Which, ironically, means that Yvonne was right with her theory about rakes.” She nodded at Maria’s tray. “I promise not to ask embarrassing questions about ice cubes and water in front of your children, if you don’t say a word about this.”
Maria smiled, all warmth and mischief. “Your loss, Elsa. It’s summer—everyone needs refreshment.”
She turned, then paused. “There’s nothing wrong with loving each other a little. You’ll never be like us, I know. But even a little love might make life... more bearable.”
With that, she vanished into the shadows of the hallway.
September 1929
So, everyone, it’s done!” Georg stepped into the villa, suitcase in hand, and placed it triumphantly on the table. “We are Austrian citizens again. Here are our new passports.”
The children peered in, curious. Liesl took one of the little booklets and ran her finger over the coat of arms, so different from the Italian one.
“Feels strange,” she murmured. “We were Italians just yesterday.”
“Not really,” Maria said quietly. “We were just holding the wrong papers.”
Georg looked at her, then nodded. “Now we have the right ones. Again.”
Louisa picked up a passport and flipped through it with a neutral expression. “Do you think they’ll let us keep using our villa in Istria?”
“We’ll see,” Georg replied. “So far, I don’t think we have to worry. Mussolini can yell as much as he wants against foreign powers, but the country needs money from tourists and investors even if they have the wrong passport.”
2 November 1929, two days after Wall Street’s “Black Tuesday”
They gathered the older children first—Liesl, Friedrich, Louisa, Kurt, and Brigitta. Maria, her belly now showing, sat with them on the divan while Georg paced nearby.
Georg and Maria took turns speaking.
Georg began: “My dear children, you may have heard talk about something called the ‘Wall Street Crash.’ Especially you, Liesl—perhaps at school. It may seem far away, but it will affect the entire world. Maybe not immediately, but soon enough. This one is big.”
“Think of it like this,” Maria continued. “People in America—and elsewhere—invested money in companies, hoping their investments would grow. That’s called buying ‘shares.’ Papa has shares too, in your uncles’ businesses in Fiume, and in some of his own.”
“For a while, the value of these shares kept going up, sometimes very quickly. This created a kind of excitement, and many people, even those who didn't have much money, started borrowing to buy more shares, hoping to get rich quickly. And, we have to admit, we made a lot of money this way, too.”
“But those companies weren’t always worth what people were paying for their shares. It became a bubble, getting bigger and bigger.”
“Suddenly, a lot of people started to worry that the prices were too high, and they all tried to sell their shares at the same time. This caused the prices to plummet very quickly—the 'crash.'”
“Imagine everyone trying to sell their apples at the market all at once. The price of apples would drop very low because there are too many, and not enough buyers.”
“The immediate consequence is that many people have lost a lot of money—their savings, their investments, everything. This will have a ripple effect.”
Liesl looked astonished. “So… those people are now poor? Or about to be? Or just struggling to pay their bills?”
Georg nodded. “Yes, some who were wealthy are now struggling. But more broadly, if people and businesses lose money, they buy and invest less. Companies may have to cut back or close altogether. And that means people will lose their jobs.”
Friedrich asked: “Does this affect us here?”
Maria continued, “Indirectly, yes. America trades with many countries. If their economy slows down, they’ll buy less—including from businesses we’re involved in.”
“More importantly, a downturn like this often leads to unemployment. If factories close or reduce staff, many people will lose their jobs and their ability to provide for their families. This can create a lot of hardship and social unrest.”
Louisa asked, “Unrest? Like protests?”
Maria explained gently, “Yes—that can happen. When people are desperate, they may turn to extreme movements that promise quick solutions, even if those are dangerous or unjust. We’ve talked about this before: fascism, communism. You’ve seen fascism in Italy.”
Georg wanted to highlight this point. “This is why it's crucial for us to understand what's happening. We must be aware of the potential for increased poverty and the rise of extremist ideologies, both here and elsewhere.”
Kurt and Brigitta exchanged looks, and asked, “So, what can we do?”
Maria offered her own insights. “On a larger scale, governments will need to think carefully about how to help people and businesses recover. Some may suggest cutting back, but others believe in investing to create jobs and get things moving again.”
Georg added, “And on a personal level, our family is fortunate. We have land, investments, and stability. That gives us a responsibility—to use them wisely, and with compassion.
We may see more people in need. We should be ready to help—whether that means offering work, or simply feeding those who have nothing.”
“It reinforces why we've always talked about the importance of community and helping those less fortunate. These times will test people's resilience and their willingness to support each other.”
Kurt was pensive. “Do you think everyone will be helping? Or will someone refuse to help? Not everyone is nice, or not all the time.”
Maria ruffled his reddish hair. “That is exactly what we are asking ourselves, and what will shape the next years. The more people are willing to do something, something that can help more people than not just one’s own family, the more likely it is we will find our way out of the crisis.”
Liesl added, “I hope companies here don’t suffer too much. They have always worried a lot, with Austria’s precarious situation, since we lost so many territories after the war.”
Georg caressed her cheek. “That’s one of Austria’s great problems. After the war, we were left with only a small German-speaking core—surrounded by hostile neighbours, with few resources.
You remember how hard it was to find food? Even though we had money, there wasn’t much to buy. We were lucky to have land. Still, I recall how bored you all were of eating the same vegetables, day after day.”
Maria added quietly, “After the war, I spent months eating in American soup kitchens. I wasn’t alone— the lines were long. Now it’s my turn to give back. Even by working side by side with people whose ideas I don’t share. If there are hungry people, we will feed them.”
It was now the time to repeat the explanation for Martha and Gretl.
Maria knelt beside them. “My darlings, you know how sometimes people save their coins in a moneybox?”
The girls answered together. “Yes!”
“Well, some grown-ups put bigger amounts of money into something called the 'stock market,' which is like owning a little piece of big companies.”
Martha had an illumination. “Like the Whitehead factory?”
Georg nodded. “A little bit like that, yes. But recently, in America, many people who had these 'pieces' suddenly got scared that they weren't worth as much anymore. So, everyone tried to sell them at the same time. And when everyone wants to sell, the price goes down, and people lose the money they put in.”
Maria jumped in again. “This has made some people in America very worried and some companies are having trouble. It's a bit like if suddenly many shops had fewer customers: they might not need as many workers.”
Martha got it. “So, people might lose their jobs?”
“Yes, that's a possibility. And when people don't have jobs, it's harder for them to buy food and clothes for their families.”
Martha’s expression darkened. “That's sad.”
Maria hurried to explain: “It is sad, sweetheart. But Papa and I want you to know that we are very fortunate. We have our home and our land, and we will always take care of you. We will also try to help others who might be going through a difficult time.”
Gretl had an intuition. “Like sharing our cake and milk? Or helping?”
Maria was proud of her. “Exactly, my clever girl. In times like these, it's important to be kind and generous to those around us.”
The children, at breakfast, asked about the new baby. “Do you think our new brother will live in a different world than ours?” Friedrich looked so serious as he shared the siblings’ common thought.
“Who told you it’s a boy?” Maria giggled.
Friedrich shrugged. “Your belly looks bigger than Anna’s.” All the others nodded, even ‘I am not a child anymore’-Liesl.
Later, that November 1929, Vienna
It was a strange thing for Georg, going to meet someone from Maria’s past.
He was already a rather jealous man with a younger and stunning wife, but the idea of some Viennese Marxist intellectual who once admired her—and perhaps still did—stirred something truly uneasy in him.
“Viktor was a good friend. He did not judge my conversion harshly, and he appreciated my independent spirit. He never told anyone not to come hiking with me just because I organised independent hikes, free of political or religious labels.”
“Darling, are you bringing me to meet one of your suitors?” he teased, masking his nerves with humour. “Are you sure that you want me—you know, your jealous husband—to meet him?”
She elbowed him. “Georg, I would think that our happiness and my belly should be a good sign that I need no suitors.” She kissed him on the corner of his mouth. “Come on, sit down and let’s order a beer. I am sure we will find someone who can direct him to us.”
Georg had one last jab. “Let’s just hope it won’t take too long. I am still worried about you giving birth on the train back to Salzburg.”
Maria looked at him as if to say, “Really?”
Viktor Wladek had been one of the main personalities in the Social Democratic Party when she was a member. They were good friends, at the time. Thinking of it now, she suspected he might have been interested. Georg would definitely get jealous. Well, at least she would delight in consoling him afterwards.
When they came to collect their order, Maria asked for two Seiterl, then asked, “Does Viktor still roam around here? Viktor Wladek.”
“Who is asking?”
“A friend. The former Maria Rainer. We were in the same Party section a few years ago.”
Apparently, it was the right thing to say, because in a matter of ten minutes, a cheerful Viktor appeared in the brewery.
“Maria! Long time no see!” There was an equally cheerful handshake, and then “Last I knew you were bound for an abbey in Salzburg! What brings you back here?” He then looked at her belly, then at Georg briefly, sitting at her same table. “Don’t tell me you had a de-conversion, married, and are coming back! I mean, I would be sorry you married, but happy for the rest!”
“Well, Viktor, you got one thing right. I got married. May I introduce to you my husband, Georg?”
“Pleasure to meet you. Lucky man, if I may say.”
“Yes, a pleasure indeed,” sarcasm flowing.
“Hey, I was just paying your wife a compliment, and indirectly to you. You are not from around here, I suppose?”
“Definitely not.”
“Oh, then, don’t take it too seriously. Just our brand of humour. But there is nothing wrong in saying that you got yourself an amazing woman.”
“Viktor, my husband is a dear man, but he is also very jealous. And, as he says, not from here. Please, sit down, it’s on us. We wanted to discuss with someone competent and trusted the Wall Street Crash from the point of view of a possible strain on the population. You know, to be able to do something.”
“So… you are coming back?”
“No, Viktor. I cannot, you know. But Georg and I share an interest for workers’ rights, women’s rights, and education for all. We are worried about what happened at the end of October. We have been talking to friends in our sphere—forgive me, Viktor—, but I don’t think we are on the same page on everything. So, I told my husband to sit down and let me talk. And I told him that some parts of Marxism are more dedicated to the analysis of the financial and industrial system than to the revolution, and that I used to know someone who might want to receive us and talk with us about those parts.”
Viktor looked at the couple again, noticing their attire. “So, you married rich. Maria Rainer married rich.”
“Maria Trapp, now.”
“Jessas… Trapp? As in the Navy hero?”
Georg sipped a little of his Seiterl of beer, a cocky attitude in his gesture and voice. “The one and only. But let’s not spread the news, right?”
Maria smiled at his charmingly jealous attitude, then reprised. “Viktor, could you please share your views on what could be happening now, and how we could help people? We worked out for ourselves that there will be a rise in unemployment and poverty levels, but we’d love to discuss it with you. To be prepared to act.”
Georg added, “Knowing that you will never see us charge with a red flag in hand, of course. But we can help with many other things.”
Georg and Maria proceeded then to unburden themselves; to explain what they stood for, what they tried to teach the children, all without hiding their patrimonial state.
Viktor leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression replacing his initial surprise and playful banter. He took a slow sip of his beer before beginning, his tone shifting to a more analytical register.
“Alright, Maria, Georg. So, the Börsenkrach in New York... it's not an isolated incident. It's a rather dramatic symptom of the inherent contradictions within the late stage of capitalist development. Think of it like this: capital, driven by its very nature to accumulate, constantly seeks new avenues for profitable investment.”
Maria listened intently. Georg felt a headache coming up already, but forced himself to listen.
Viktor gestured with his beer glass. “This leads to an expansion of credit and the creation of what we call fictitious capital: paper wealth, like shares, whose value isn't directly tied to the actual production of goods and services. It's a layer built on top of the real economy.”
Viktor paused, looking at Georg. “Your shipping companies, your factories… that's the real economy. But the shares you hold in them? That's a claim on future profits, a form of this fictitious capital. When this speculative bubble inflates too rapidly, detached from the underlying value creation, it becomes inherently unstable.”
He continued, turning back to Maria. “The crash, then, is a brutal correction. The realization that these paper claims are overvalued triggers a panic. Everyone tries to liquidate their assets simultaneously, driving prices down precipitously. This destruction of fictitious capital has real consequences.”
“Firstly,” Viktor emphasized, ticking off a point on his fingers, “it leads to a contraction of credit. Banks, having seen the value of their collateral evaporate and facing increased uncertainty, become hesitant to lend. This chokes off investment in actual production.”
“Secondly,” he added, “it generates mass unemployment. Businesses, facing reduced access to capital, decreased demand due to the loss of wealth, and a general climate of fear, are forced to cut back. They lay off workers to reduce costs, creating a vicious cycle of declining consumption and further economic stagnation.”
“Thirdly, and perhaps most insidiously,” Viktor's voice grew a touch sharper, “it exacerbates class tensions. You’ll forgive me for saying this, I hope. The working class, already vulnerable, bears the brunt of unemployment and wage cuts. The stark contrast between their suffering and the—often perceived— continued wealth of the capitalist class breeds resentment and can fuel social unrest. This is the fertile ground where extremist ideologies, offering simplistic and often violent solutions, can take root.”
He looked at both of them. “So, your instincts about increased unemployment and poverty are correct. The financial crash in America will have a deflationary impact globally, including here in Austria. Our few industries, reliant on international trade and investment, will feel the strain. The ranks of the unemployed will swell, and the social safety nets, already inadequate, will be stretched to their breaking point.”
Viktor sighed, the intensity in his eyes softening slightly as he looked at Maria's burgeoning belly. “Your desire to help is commendable. From a Marxist perspective, charity is a palliative, a temporary bandage on a systemic wound. True change requires a fundamental restructuring of the relations of production.”
He gave a wry smile. “But in the immediate term, your efforts to provide work and aid will undoubtedly alleviate some suffering. Just remember the underlying forces at play. This crisis is not an anomaly; it's an inherent feature of the capitalist system in its current phase.”
Georg, who had been listening intently, his initial sarcasm momentarily subdued by Viktor's analysis, finally spoke. “So, in essence, some people have treated industries like gambling. The casino chips have lost their value, and now the real businesses and the people who work in them will pay the price for the gamblers' folly?”
Viktor nodded slowly. “A crude but not entirely inaccurate analogy, Herr Trapp. The speculative excesses have come crashing down, and the real economy is now facing the fallout.”
Maria placed a hand on Georg's arm, a gentle smile on her face. “Thank you, Viktor. That gives us a clearer, if somewhat sobering, picture. We appreciate your insights.”
Georg, recovering his usual tone, added, “Indeed. Fascinating stuff. Forces a romantic like me to rethink about how he sees the world.” He gave Maria a sidelong glance, a hint of his earlier jealousy returning, but tempered with genuine respect for Viktor's knowledge. “Well, my dear, shall we get another beer and then perhaps discuss how we, in our decidedly non-revolutionary way, might try to mitigate some of this impending doom?”
Viktor raised his empty glass to catch the barman’s attention. “Anyway, you might want to rethink your position. If you are prepared to support reformist policies, as you said in the beginning, you might still have a place with us. Even you, Herr Trapp, monarchist and all. You’ll see. I am prepared to bet that we will meet again soon.”
“Well,” Georg said as they stepped outside, “he didn’t try to steal you back. I’d call that a diplomatic success.”
“You were never in danger,” Maria laughed.
“Still. Let’s go get you and our little revolutionary warm, fed, and rested before Elsa and Max send the police to look for us.”
“He or she is not a revolutionary,” she said, mock-offended. “He or she is a future reformer. Like his parents.”
“God help Austria.”
The first sign that things would change was that Betty and Anton came to say goodbye with their little boy. “We are not sure what it’s going to happen, but we thought it is time to go back to our land in Tyrol before the factory shuts down or reduces workforce. It’s better to leave on our own terms and to be already producing food, to eat and to sell.” They sipped the mulled wine. “Anton is finishing the winter production, and we are moving back with the New Year, just in time to flee before demand drops, and to start preparations for the spring.”
Maria and Georg nodded. It was a sound strategy: be always one step ahead. But it was also the sign that something was changing, that yet another era was ending. The Belle Époque had ended; the war, too; the aftermath with its hunger had made room for the Twenties and their contradictions, between progress, modernity, and ugly threats. Now, something else was being ushered in. What exactly, remained to be seen. It would not be immediate, most likely. But something would come.
All the children greeted Betty, Anton, and little Josef with affection, as did Georg and Maria, then watched them walk away on the main path leading to Traunstraße, their boots crunching lightly on the frost. The boy, too young to understand, waved with both hands.
Everyone said that it was just part of life. In truth, a clock had started ticking the moment the market crashed, and this was the first half hour striking.
Even so, the children kept growing, oblivious and hopeful, their laughter echoing through corridors that were slowly being reclaimed by silence. And soon, there would be a new Trapp, too.
Chapter 19: Growth (1930)
Summary:
Our favourite family welcomes a new baby, little Florian, two years after Anna. Love and unity rule. However, most of the children are now adolescents (or pre-adolescents) plus one young adult with an allowance most young people could only dream of, and this can only mean one thing: a period of experimentation. And Georg and Maria will have to rise to the occasion. Bonus: we learn yet another detail of Georg’s adventures at the Naval Academy.
In the spring, Liesl begins her life as a professional in Vienna, a rather modern choice. Elsa and Max take her under their wings, and this leads to her starting the most decisive years of her and her family’s life.
Genres: comedy, Bildungsroman, romance.
Notes:
Pfiff = 0.2 l beer; Halbe/Hoibe = 0.5 l beer
A Melange is a sort of cappuccino but Viennese-style (instead of the Trieste-style one drunk in Italy and also in most of Austria. Vienna has its own coffee culture.)
Don’t forget Max is a banker’s son in my story (see chap. 11)
The "inn" Steinlechner still exists, by the way!
The Vienna Academy of Fine Arts is the one that rejected Adolf Hitler: you probably have heard the running jokes or seen the memes. 😉
With this chapter, we begin a crucial transition phase: the beginning of the oldest ones’ Bildungsroman, the transition from the Roaring Twenties to the Fascist Thirties, and Liesl’s path to her adult life, which will be as much of a trigger as Georg and Maria’s love for the events of the next years.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
22 January 1930, after dinner
“So, it seems like we Trapps like to be born in January and February,” commented Louisa in the middle of the sitting room where the seven older siblings were reunited to celebrate both the arrival of baby Florian that morning and Liesl’s graduation as interpreter and translator the previous day.
“I am so happy that we finally have another boy in the family,” rejoiced Kurt.
“Kurt, by the time Florian is ready to help you in your plans for world domination, or whatever it is that you have in mind, you are going to have your own babies to look after. You will be fifteen in March!” Friedrich teased his brother, while pulling out his secret treasure for the evening, careful not to break the bottles.
Brigitta remarked, “That would imply that someone is interested in having Kurt’s babies,” to the amusement of everyone, just before being hit by a pillow. Kurt had honed both his aim and his composure as of late. Where once Brigitta’s jabs might have drawn real irritation, now they sparked only swift, playful retaliation. Her barb, delivered with a smirk rather than an edge, no longer sought to hurt but to tease—and his pillow landed with the precision of someone destined for a career where aim would be essential.
“So,” announced Friedrich gleefully, “Liesl, Louisa and I are entitled to our own bottle of beer. Kurt and Brigitta will get a Pfiff, and Martha and Gretl, you can have a taste of it. Is that clear?”
“Why did you hide the beer if you can buy it, Friedrich?” asked Gretl.
“Because I am not sure Papa and Mama would approve, and because if I did tell them, the bottles would be in the kitchen, and no one younger than Louisa would get some. Papa might even object about Louisa, now that I think of it. It sure was complicated to convince him to let her taste some champagne at dinner.”
Friedrich poured the promised liquid bread in the agreed-upon quantity with the help of Liesl, then everyone picked up their glass and they were ready to toast.
Friedrich continued doing the honours. “To our little Florian, the ninth von Trapp sibling. And to Liesl, now a trained interpreter and translator. To her projects of moving to Vienna by herself by the spring. May our love and unity as siblings never diminish, despite all! Prosit!”
Everyone took their first sip. Kurt and Brigitta downed it without comment, their expression rather neutral, whereas Martha and Gretl reacted with “Aargh! It’s so bitter!”
The entire room laughed. “Well, at least we will not get into trouble with our parents for leading you astray at such a tender age,” commented Liesl.
“I agree that champagne tastes better,” said Brigitta.
“Yes, Gitti, but stealing a bottle from the cellar would not go undetected!” explained Louisa.
“And a bottle of champagne costs a lot. Papa would ask why we need so much money at our age!” added Liesl.
Friedrich then opened the window and pulled out the cigarettes.
“Oh, Friedrich, smoking here? You know we will hear from our parents!” Brigitta protested.
“Gitti is right, Friedrich. Only guests smoke in our house. We could just pop at Steinlechner, the three of us, and smoke there!” was Louisa’s proposal.
“Oh, it’s not fair!” exclaimed Kurt.
“Is it not too cold and potentially slippery? Friedrich, Liesl, you cannot take the car! If you crash it, Papa is going to kill us all!” Brigitta was rather pessimistic.
“I thought we could ride our bikes, go down the path to the station and then up Aigner Straße. People ride their bike on this dry snow all the time. We will just be careful,” was Friedrich’s reply.
The four youngest siblings grumbled about the unfairness of it all. “Come on, Kurt. Next year we might take you with us. Papa is not going to be happy anyway, but at least sixteen is a more reasonable age, and his wrath would be more contained.” Liesl tried to mediate.
Louisa chuckled. “Mama is a different story. She really does not like smoke, but she admitted she started drinking very young in Tyrol, and got drunk at fifteen in Ottakring!”
“Yeah, she also said that she would ground us all if we ever did something like that,” added Friedrich.
The four younger siblings were sent to their rooms. The trio tried to clean up a little, gathering the empty bottles and the glasses in a corner, then made plans.
“Maybe we could go into town!”
“It’s freezing, Lou. I am rather sure we will be happy to reach Steinlechner at all. And dressing for town when we are cycling is akin to suicide.” Liesl definitely knew better.
The trio bundled up like reluctant Arctic explorers, checked whether they had enough Schillings, and carefully rode the path to the gate on the railway side to reach Aigner Straße, hoping not to slip. The tyres were purposefully a little deflated, and they advanced in a rather practised regular and careful manner. They were soon at Steinlechner—completely frozen, but happy.
The inn was warm, loud, and smelt like beer-soaked tables and freshly-fried schnitzel. A group of men in woollen coats were already halfway through a drinking song, clapping on the off-beat. It was the other side of nightlife in Salzburg: the traditional, warm one, not the fancy, exclusive one.
The innkeeper greeted Friedrich, who often stopped by with his schoolmates or bought beer for his clandestine meetings. “And these are some of your sisters? My guests will be very happy! My Fräulein, you are both enchanting!”
Friedrich grudgingly introduced his sisters to the innkeeper. Liesl reminded him, “Should we recall all the times that my friends swooned over you? Or the time Lena simply ran up to you and kissed you?”
Friedrich turned beet red.
They sat at their table, ordered their Halbe beer, and pulled out the cigarettes. Not that they really smoked all the time, but they liked smoking in social occasions. It made them feel like they fit in in all establishments and sitting rooms.
“Can you believe that just a few years ago we were children, getting scolded for the dangerous way we played with each other, and now we are here, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, celebrating our newest baby brother and the beginning of Liesl’s adventure as an independent woman?” Friedrich was a little bit nostalgic, but he appreciated being able to behave like an adult.
“You know you can visit me in Vienna any time, and I will visit home regularly, right? I do not want to miss out on the little ones growing up,” said Liesl.
Louisa didn’t reply immediately. She was watching the way Liesl’s eyes lit up when she talked about Vienna—that kind of light that made you realise someone was already half-gone.
“As Mama says, one day it will happen. That you will miss out on things, I mean. One day you will call some other place ‘home’, and you will not visit the villa as often as you wish. And it will happen to all of us, sooner or later.” Louisa was a little bit wistful.
“We can still keep in touch, and swear that we will meet regularly, no matter what!” Liesl proposed passionately. “It is not just Mama and Papa. It’s all of us, our bond. We are stronger together, especially now that it seems like most of us are outgrowing the mocking-and-being-mean stage.”
To that, the trio toasted.
They decided to talk about lighter things, such as the entertainment they planned on enjoying, the new jazz and swing recordings, news from cinema, the funny approaches of several men interested in the young women and even of a few women complimenting poor Friedrich, who got always very embarrassed in these occasions. They even joined a group of particularly spirited guests talking and singing, and didn’t notice the quantity of beer and cigarettes consumed.
Of course, their ride back to the villa was nothing but simple. The freezing January air kept them as reactive as possible, but their ride along the main road was rather adventurous, and as soon as they reached the gate on the station side, they gave up trying to ride, and pushed their bikes up to the villa, hoping to use them as crutches.
The slower pace of walking uphill meant giving up the benefits of the freezing January air constantly blown on their faces. Louisa suddenly stopped, hands on knees. “Oh no. I regret everything,” she groaned —and decorated the pristine snow with the unmistakable results of poor life choices.
Liesl gagged. “You are so shovelling snow on it to cover it up.”
“Not if I perish first,” Louisa muttered.
Louisa’s suffering was followed by Liesl’s, and then Friedrich’s, among laughter and moans.
When they finally reached the villa—not after having considered napping outside for a while—, they threw down their bikes near the entrance, and entered the villa.
As they returned to the sitting room, they were met with an unexpected sight lurking in the shadows— revealed fully only once the light switch was flicked.
“Good evening, children,” came the familiar, unmistakably stern voice of their father. He was seated in his robe, Anna sound asleep against his shoulder, her breathing soft and steady. “Would you care to explain what exactly has been going on here?”
He gestured toward the clutter on the table. Bottles. Glasses. Disarray.
“I count seven glasses,” he continued, his voice rising slightly with each word. “I do hope you haven’t done anything as hare-brained as plying your younger siblings with alcohol.”
A pause—purely theatrical, born of aristocratic breeding and of officer’s training—before his eyes narrowed.
“Three responsible and diligent young people like you would never do such a thing.” Another beat. “Stopping at the inn near the school to buy beer in secret, Friedrich? Really?”
He studied them in silence, and in that silence, their dishevelment became even more apparent—pale faces, swollen eyes, slumped shoulders.
“You reek of cigarettes. And you look like you’re about to pass out.”
Georg slowly, carefully shifted Anna from his shoulder to the sofa, laying her down with exaggerated gentleness—the kind that conveyed how very undeserving they were of her current peace.
“Promise me you won’t wake her,” he said. “And under no circumstances are you to offer her any beer.”
He stood, sighing. “I’ll fetch some buckets. And water. And perhaps some Aspirin—though none of you deserve it.”
“Oh, but she does look so endearing!” slurred Liesl, eyes misty. “I just want to cuddle her…”
Louisa silenced and stopped her with a death-glare, followed by the impulse to gag.
Georg returned in the nick of time. Liesl had turned a shade of green that defied description, Louisa was ghostly white, and Friedrich was failing to look even remotely heroic and to sit straight. One by one, they emptied their stomachs again, then gulped water between pitiful groans.
Georg stood over them like a seasoned officer (which he was) inspecting the aftermath of a failed mission (which he luckily wasn’t).
Once they seemed capable of comprehension, he resumed.
“You do realise,” he said, his tone level but cold, “that your mother and I are currently very occupied with a baby and a toddler. We do not look forward to nursing three grown children through self-inflicted idiocy.”
“We were celebrating among siblings. Florian’s birth and Liesl’s gradua—shsh—graduation,” Friedrich muttered.
“And after your home celebration, where did you go?”
“Steinlechner.”
Georg inhaled deeply. “Before Liesl moves to Vienna, the three of you will be taking care of the little ones frequently. Your mother and I will be going somewhere pleasant. That is your first punishment. I don’t want to hear ‘but Lena invited me here’ or ‘Norbert invited me there’. You had your fun today. And you gave beer to an eight- and ten-year-old, respectively!”
“See? He didn’t get mad about Gitti and Kurt,” Friedrich whispered, miscalculating his volume.
His father’s glare froze him in place.
Just then, Maria appeared at the top of the stairs—slightly unsteady, one hand on her back, the other resting protectively on her belly. She descended slowly, wincing now and then, pausing when she reached the last step.
“You know,” she said, voice dry, “your voices carry.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“Oh, dear. What is that smell?”
She took in the scene: the state of the room, the faces, the buckets. And then—briefly, guiltily—she smiled.
“I was wondering when you would do something this foolish. It was only a matter of time.”
“Mama, we’re so sorry we woke you.”
“You didn’t. It was Florian, naturally. He woke Anna as well—some time ago.”
Georg and the trio explained the situation. Maria listened with that mixture of maternal judgment and weariness only someone managing a newborn, a toddler, and a houseful of adolescents plus one young adult could muster.
“As I said,” she repeated, “it’s natural for young people to do something idiotic, sooner or later. That doesn’t mean there won’t be consequences. Your father has already assigned one of them. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss the rest.”
She narrowed her eyes at them, just slightly.
“I suspect none of you will see allowance money for quite some time. Nor will the others—we wouldn’t want Kurt slipping you anything. After all, they were in on it, too.”
Maria paused, shifting her weight with care and placing a hand on the armrest before sitting down. Her wince did not go unnoticed.
“Ironic, isn’t it? Just this morning you were saying how tired you were, because of my labour in the night. Oh, I forgot: tomorrow, you two” she gestured at Friedrich and Louisa “will still go to school. And Liesl, there will be no sleeping in. You will take care of Anna when your father and I want to rest.”
Georg sat down beside her, his hand briefly brushing hers, just enough to steady her. She didn’t thank him aloud, but the gesture was clear.
“I want you all in your rooms within ten minutes. No further discussion. The buckets stay with you. If anyone wakes up Florian, you will regret it.”
She looked at Friedrich, then Liesl, then Louisa—and softened, just a little.
“I know you are great children. I know this was the usual nonsense parents come to expect when you hit a certain age. I know you wanted to make all the other feel included, and meant no harm.”
She turned to Liesl. “But please. Liesl, come spring, you will be living mostly by yourself. Yes, the Auerspergs’ staff will be there, but please don’t tell me this is how you are going to spend your evenings. What of your dreams? Of contributing something? Of finding love?”
Then turned to the other two. “And you… you want to study medicine. Was this an experiment already? Getting drunk on a school night and seeing how you fare? We will not be there to check on you, when you are away for university. So, you will have to learn how to control yourself, how to come home safe, sound, and on time for your duty.”
Georg cleared his throat.
“Your mother has said everything there is to say. And far kindlier than I might have.”
He looked over each of them, lingering on Friedrich, then Louisa, then Liesl. His voice was quieter now —still firm, but more reflective.
“Good night, children. We will talk tomorrow.”
Once the children had gone upstairs— some trudging, some staggering—the room fell silent, save for the tick of the clock and a distant creak from the nursery above. Georg remained standing, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed on the fireplace. Maria didn’t speak at first. She was trying to find a comfortable way to sit without leaning too hard on her left hip.
After a long pause, she muttered, “We really weren’t better.”
Georg gave a quiet snort. “I was worse.”
She turned her head just enough to give him a sidelong glance. “I know.”
He smiled. “The Naval Academy was full of terrible ideas, and I tried most of them.”
Maria gave a tired laugh. “And I had no one to stop me. Maybe that’s why we’re so keen on stopping them.”
He finally sat beside her again, leaning back with a sigh. “Well, at least they didn’t try to determine the trajectory of a cannonball versus a champagne cork in a confined space.”
Maria blinked. “Please tell me that’s hypothetical.”
Georg’s eyes twinkled. “Mostly.”
She groaned and leaned her head on his shoulder. “We’ll talk to them properly tomorrow. All seven were involved. Even Kurt and Brigitta—if they’re old enough to ask for a sip, they’re old enough to learn consequences.”
Georg nodded. “Punishments will be distributed equitably, in full military fashion.”
She gave him a look. “Not too equitably. The trio orchestrated it all, and also went further than drinking some smuggled beer without our consent.”
“One wants to conquer Vienna, the other two to cure people. Can you imagine it?”
“God help Vienna. I am less worried about the patients: it will be years before they actually start treating some, “ Maria muttered.
They sat a moment in silence.
“You know,” Maria said, her voice softer now, “I worry for Liesl. She wants so much. To be grown. To be important. And she will be. But she doesn’t know yet what the world expects in return.”
Georg nodded slowly. “We’ll let her find out. Carefully.”
A pause.
“She’ll meet someone, eventually,” Maria added. “Someone who looks like a man, speaks like a poet, and whom you’ll probably dislike just because he is taking away your daughter. And I will have to bring you back to my progressive ways!”
Georg raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure whether to be amused or alarmed.”
“Both,” Maria replied, rubbing her eyes. “That’s parenting.”
The sentence was issued the following day at dinner. Liesl was to volunteer at the Diocese as a translator, to be prepared for her new adventure in Vienna. Friedrich and Louisa had to submit regular biology and history essays, reflecting especially on the abuse of alcohol, and drawing on sources in all languages they spoke or understood: German, English, Italian, French, Latin, and Ancient Greek. All three of them were to take care of Anna and Florian anytime Maria and Georg wanted to rest, or to have some time just by themselves.
The younger children would skip dessert for a week. Kurt and Brigitta also had to submit an essay about temperance according to Proverbs and the Catechism.
This state of things ferried the entire family to April.
Florian had steadily grown, both in size and in the usual dark full head of hair, just like Anna, Martha, Brigitta, and Liesl—Georg’s obviously. As it was tradition, the boy was constantly cuddled by someone, same as it had happened and still happened with Anna.
When Liesl finally moved to Vienna, on a sunny weekend, the entire family accompanied her. The trio was inflicted their last childcaring duty, to have Maria and Georg mingle with their friends in Vienna, and steal some romantic moment for themselves. Friedrich had helped carrying the many books and dictionaries Liesl would need.
Thanks to her connections—the Whiteheads, the Auerspergs, the Detweilers—as well as to her qualification, she was able to land a job as a translator for the renowned newspaper Neue Freie Presse, the newspaper that the family had been reading since years. She would stay at the Auerspergs’ townhouse, having some company when the other young members came by to enjoy the capital instead of their estate in Lower Austria.
It was now time for the rest of the family to go back to Salzburg. Saying goodbye was not easy—not even for little Anna, who absolutely returned Liesl’s preference for her and didn’t want to let go of her. Each one of her siblings hugged her for long, and wished to see her often for visits.
For Georg and Maria, it was even more emotional. The first child to start a life outside the house, and in a way that would have been unconventional only a few years ago: to live on her own (well, sort of), and to take up a profession.
“I just hope I don’t fail,” sighed Liesl, before hugging and kissing her parents. “I have my photos of both your wedding days as my usual lucky charm, Papa. I hope it’s enough.”
Georg's face softened in a way Maria loved most—that moment when the stern naval line of his jaw gave way to the father.
“Even if you fail, which I don’t believe you will do,” he said, “we’ll be proud that you dared.”
“And if I come back early?” she asked. “If it’s too hard?”
Maria wrapped her arms around her—not too tightly, not to make her feel small, just to feel her warmth.
“Then we’ll be at the villa in Salzburg, with open arms as usual. And you don’t need lucky charms, Liesl. Just use your gifts, remember to pray, and it will all be well.”
Liesl’s job consisted of translating communications and reports from abroad into German: this meant she played a role both in the redaction and publication of the newspaper (some articles even were her own translations, published as such!), and in the operability of the publishing company. She was given mostly translations from English and Italian. She could translate from home, too: a messenger would bring the texts over. But she visited the newspaper as often as possible, to get to know people as well as to avoid missing important assignments.
Surely, living at the Auerspergs’ townhouse meant she always had someone to collect any assignments for her, and possibly to reach out to her if she was at some social meeting. But she tried to be as present as possible in the beginning, to understand how her job ticked.
Aunt Elsa was happy to take her under her wing. She introduced her to the best circles where younger women also were, she invited to events where she could shine and where she could make new friendships and maybe meet her future husbands. Sitting room meetings, balls, opera and theatre, a few intimate dinners.
When she got nervous, Elsa gave her advice, and Max made her laugh.
Liesl did have her own friendships in the city: her cousin Connie, who was also in Vienna, finishing school; Lena and Ulli from school in Salzburg; the Auerspergs. But Elsa and Max knew that it was not enough for a young aristocrat who had all the numbers to aim high and succeed. Birth, beauty, poise, personality, intelligence.
Elsa explained to her, “I know you are livelier than myself. Especially today, there is no harm in that. You will fare well in society. But if we play our cards right, you might really become my heir in society: organising events, gathering people around you. And you could marry a Count!”
Max interjected, “Or a banker.” At Elsa’s indignant stare, he replied, “What? I hear bankers’ sons are all the rage among Baronesses…” to which Elsa took a page off Maria’s book, and kicked him in his shin.
Liesl giggled. “You are all very kind, but I would like to marry for love, you know. I do not need a titled man. And some untitled men still have ties to the former aristocracy.”
“Dear Liesl, you are not falling in love with anyone if you are not meeting people you might fall in love with.”
“I agree. That’s why I am trying to accept all the invitations that might interest me, and that don’t jeopardise my job.”
Elsa shivered. “This fixation of Maria’s with you all having to find professions…”
“Aunt Elsa, it’s not a fixation. What would we do with our lives without something? Wake up, drink champagne, go to social events, go to bed?”
Elsa and Max nodded, exchanging puzzled looks.
“Even Papa and Mama have the estate, Papa’s companies… well, and us. Nine, so far. Definitely still growing in number.”
Elsa scoffed. “All right, all right. It might be another option to meet people. The Neue Freie Presse is a renowned newspaper, after all.”
Liesl pondered all things for a while, then came up with something that she had neglected. “You know, I always loved drawing and painting. I might want to attend some classes in art, to improve my technique. Do you think you might know of something that might cater to people such as myself?”
Elsa and Max took up the challenge, and—as anyone would have guessed—in a few days, Elsa came back with her response.
“Every well-bred girl or young woman worth her season—or her marriage— is taking art classes held by a certain professor of the Academy of Fine Arts. He is young, terribly talented, quite modern in his methods. He combines some history and theory with a lot of practice, I hear. Some nourishment for the soul for young women like you, by a professor at our renowned academy. It sounds like the perfect occasion!”
And Liesl signed up, gladly.
She began her classes at the beginning of June, with a bunch of other girls and young women, as predicted, and took up the challenge. History and theory were presented as if it were a discussion in one of Elsa’s salons, not as a lecture, and the professor—Emil Hoffmann—, expected active involvement all the time. Then there was sketching, drawing, brushwork.
In both cases, Professor Hoffmann did not shy away from feedback. And he never, never used titles, no matter the amount of eyelash batting. He was gentle, of course, but sincere. A refreshing novelty for Liesl; less so for some of her peers.
“I don’t see a ring on that hand. Shouldn’t he be more gallant with the unmarried ones among us?”
Liesl was amused. “Maybe he does not want a ring on his hand. As far as I know, if we were enrolled in the Academy, he would be even prohibited from communicating with us privately, to even befriend us.”
That did not make her particularly beloved among the group. “Are we not already attending events everywhere in Vienna? Do we really need to look for a husband during art classes?” Liesl egged on.
“Everywhere, Fräulein von Trapp, everywhere. Our husbands could be everywhere.”
As opposed to the rather boring conversations with her class mates, the professor remarks about her work were always very interesting.
“Fräulein Trapp, you are very talented when painting or drawing landscapes: nature, buildings. Your success rate with animals varies. And somehow, you are completely unable to recreate human figures.” He regarded her seriously, even a little bit sadly—maybe he was sorry to issue such a harsh judgement? Then he continued, “I wonder whether this is something we can solve by working on your technique, or if it’s something to do with how you see the world.”
A while later, he came up with an explanation. “I thought about it. It must be something to do with your profession. You said you translate for the Neue Freie Presse? You must be skilled with languages, with words. Maybe you connect living things to another form of communication that is not figurative art, and you are unable to recreate them.”
Liesl’s soul was struck.
She thought back to her mother’s tale of her college days: her platonic crushes on professors she venerated.
Now she got it. She had instantly developed a crush on Professor Hoffmann.
To be honest, she had never been indifferent to him. True: he was not the classical handsome, dashing man every woman was swooning over. He was a rather ordinary brown-haired, brown-eyed man, but with a lot of charm and with a passion for his job that was tangible. Which meant he would become attractive to any woman who might fall in love with him, she surmised. She surely appreciated how his engagement and intelligence lit up his entire face.
She could not say she was in love with him, and she would be careful with that, after the Rolf debacle, but she surely started to find him beautiful. On the inside, of course.
Her classes became the highlight of her life. Not even watching the extraordinary Madama Butterfly by Puccini in a box with Elsa and Max—and all of Vienna admiring her—topped her excitement (and she did cry on the Un bel dì vedremo aria.)
One day, she was working on one of her translations at a café, before moving on to one of her sketches for her next landscape, when she saw him enter, his suitcase in his hand, and her heart fluttered a little.
She thought nothing of it. It was a crush.
Then she heard his voice. “Good evening, Fräulein Trapp. What are you doing in such a bourgeois establishment?”
“Good evening, professor. Well, a bourgeois establishment, whatever you mean by that word, makes it less likely for me to be interrupted by people wanting to chat mindlessly.”
“Oh, I get it, I get it. I just wanted to greet you, and to tease you, Fräulein. You can imagine your usual milieu is an immense source of amusement for some. But I do not want to be one of those ‘interrupting’. Enjoy your coffee, and your work.”
“Oh, professor, I didn’t mean you! I mean… my usual milieu, as you say. They would ask why I work, when I am going to the next ball or event…not just make some conversation and maybe sit together in companionable silence afterwards.”
Did she just invite her professor to sit with her? It sounded like that.
The professor seemed a little bit hesitant, but then he asked, “May I? You can send me away any time.”
“Of course.”
“So, why do you work? As far as I have heard, you don’t need to work for a living.”
“My mother thinks we all need to find our calling, our purpose in life. All of us are continuing their studies or finding a profession after school. She encourages us to try out things. She is great. Has been since she was our governess.”
The professor smiled. “That sounds like a long and interesting story.”
“It is.”
“So, you are working to find out what your calling, your purpose in life is.”
“Yes.”
“And why are you attending my art classes?”
“One could say it’s still part of my research for a purpose. It’s actually my pastime. I always liked sketching and drawing, but I attended a lyceum, then I trained as a translator… I had no time to really cultivate this interest of mine. We, as a family, also love music and sports, and we spend most of our time together either with the one or the other occupation. Now that I am living on my own, I want to explore art. Maybe it will remain a pastime, maybe not. Who knows.”
The professor regarded her intensely, and nodded. “You are quite the exception. My students usually are either young girls treating me as a new kind of finishing school, or young women trying to flee the boredom of their marriages.”
Liesl hoped her question was not too intimate. “And why do you teach additional classes to those from the Academy?”
The professor seemed pensive for a while. “As you say, to find a purpose in life, and to cultivate a pastime that makes sense. A city like Vienna offers too much to men like me, and one gets lost easily. I decided to stick with what I love most.”
“That is a very deep thought, Professor.”
“So was yours.”
“But now, I think I should order my Melange, and drink it in silence, letting you work.”
And with that, they spent some time together, simply drinking coffee and working. Sometimes, they exchanged smiles with a mix of timidness and complicity.
Liesl started questioning if it was just a crush.
A few days later, she was attending a Klimt exhibition with Elsa and Max. She was completely immersed in the admiration of the works of art, when Elsa whispered to her:
“Who is that man who cannot keep his eyes off you? Do you know him? He does look… eligible. Maybe not of the highest spheres, but well-dressed and of appropriate age.”
Max added, “Don’t turn around too brusquely. You should know that already, but repetita juvant.”
Liesl started removing some imaginary lint from her dress and then checking her purse, in order to get a good look around at the room.
She found it immediately. “Oh, it’s Professor Hoffmann, my art professor.”
Liesl had not learned from Elsa the art of being subtle, and her blush gave her away.
Max was full of glee, like a child with a new toy. “Oh, this is too good! You and the art professor! You both like each other!”
Elsa glared at him. “Elisabeth is not one of those people you can toy with for your own enjoyment, Max!” She then turned to Liesl. “Dear, unless he is a poor bohemian artist, you are free to explore the possibilities. Worst case scenario, we get a private guided tour for free right now.”
She then took Liesl’s arm to move on to another work, to enable her to greet the professor naturally.
Elsa scoffed when she moved over to him—she should have waited for him to come to her!—but then again, she was twenty, and the man looked no older than thirty. Ah, youth!
The professor really didn’t respect any of the social norms of high society, and simply introduced himself, although in a very charming and warm manner. Liesl introduced them as Herr and Frau Detweiler, winking at Max—who would be gloating for hours that evening.
And the professor did offer his expertise for the rest of the tour.
Max and Elsa let the two young hopefully-soon-to-be-lovers strategically and subtly alone at the end of their tour. And Liesl was very grateful to them, because the professor asked her whether she would want to visit with him a Schiele exhibition.
The next time, it was an event at the Wiener Secession.
The professor always introduced her with due respect, as Fräulein Trapp, a lover of art, and behaved like a gentleman, but she was sure he looked at her more softly than before. And she was sure she was not having a crush anymore, but something else.
“It is refreshing to see someone who visits exhibitions because she wants to visit them, not because she wants to tell others she was at the exhibition.”
Liesl blushed. “I told you everything about me. You know I don’t do things just because I must do them. I wanted a debutante ball. I wanted to see the Madama Butterfly. I wanted to explore my interest for art. I am not sure I will ever have the talent and the passion you have for it, but it’s enough to make me happy.”
The professor smiled. “Anyway, the thing that entertained me the most is your family’s story. Sounds like out of a novel!” They laughed. Then he added, “Do you miss your family?”
“I visit them regularly. We siblings promised we would never give up our bond.”
There was a sadness in his eyes. “I do envy you. I was an only child. It meant I inherited everything, but it did feel alone, sometimes. But that’s also what brought me to art: I started sketching and drawing when I was tired of playing alone.”
Liesl felt sorry for touching such a sensitive topic, so she tried to cheer him up. “Enough of these gloomy thoughts, Professor. Now, tell me: what is this with the Academy rejecting Adolf Hitler twice? It is all your fault he is now causing turmoil in Germany!” She chuckled and swatted him on his forearm.
“What?” He replied in mock indignation “I was a child at the time; I have nothing to do with that!”
After that evening, their walks became more frequent—always in public, always proper, but filled with quiet joy. He had begun to call her Liesl, once they were outside class hours. And she called him Emil.
Then came their afternoon at Schönbrunn. He had brought his sketchbook; she had brought her pastels.
They sat near the Gloriette, overlooking the gardens. Tourists passed by, but none of them mattered.
“You’ve improved,” he said, leaning over her shoulder to look at her sketch. “You’ve started to see the people now.”
“I think I started to feel them,” she answered without thinking. Then realized how it sounded. She turned, and he was still leaning in close.
Their eyes met.
“I shouldn’t—” he began.
But she already knew. “You should,” she whispered.
And he did.
The kiss was sweet, lingering. The moment stretched and held, like the scent of flowers in late spring on a warm day in Austria.
When they parted, Emil looked down, a furrow of concern between his brows. “Liesl… we have to be careful. You’re not twenty-one yet. I don’t want anyone to talk. Not for my sake, but for yours. You still have a reputation to protect in this city, in your sphere.”
Liesl smiled. “Then let them talk.”
Emil chuckled softly, but he was serious. “No nights at the opera together. No townhouse dinners—staff isn’t reliable. Never one of your high-society establishments. Not until we’re sure, and not until you decide. Probably not before you turn twenty-one, February next.”
She appreciated that. Even admired him more for it.
It began like that: weeks made of passionate kisses and embraces; of evenings dancing the jazz and the swing; of other exhibitions; of going to the cinema; of sitting in cafés, working together in silence, a Wiener Melange in front of them.
Liesl started to see what her life could soon become, if they both wanted. There was just one question she had, one that lingered in quiet moments: not if, but when. She was a little scared to know the answer, and yet somehow eager.
The answer came unexpectedly. A sudden autumn downpour, with some snowflakes already hidden between the waterdrops, trapped them at a jazz establishment for a while, and once they took courage and tried to go home, Emil insisted she shouldn’t go home drenched and half-frozen. “You’ll catch a cold,” he said.
His home was a nice, bourgeois bachelor flat: spacious enough, and filled with books, canvases, and soft lamplight. He offered her a blanket and a robe, and put on his own robe. They drank tea, sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking of art and Vienna and what scared them and what thrilled them; of the music of the evening, and of the dance moves they had tried.
Then they kissed, unhurriedly at first, then progressively more passionate, the robes making a poor job of concealing their heat and their skin.
When their kiss became deeper, and their caresses more daring, Emil stopped.
“Liesl…” he whispered, hesitating. “We should stop. Before it’s too late.”
She said no.
Later, as she lay with him, wrapped in linen and quiet, she thought: He was careful in every way that mattered. With me. With us. With what might come next. And it had been beautiful.
After that night, something shifted—not in what they said, or even in what they did, but in how they carried themselves around each other. A glance held a little longer. A touch lingered on her wrist. A pause before parting. They remained careful, but a new sense of intimacy infused every gesture, every silence.
Sometimes Liesl stayed at his flat, her presence becoming familiar in small ways—her scarf tossed over a chair, her favourite herbal tea added to his pantry, the scent of her perfume clinging to his pillows. Emil never pressed, never assumed. He gave her the keys only when she asked.
Their days grew bolder. They visited Krems and Klosterneuburg. Here, Liesl brought him to the cemetery where her ‘real’ mother lay. They stood in silence, and then she knelt and left a flower—a pale carnation. Emil stood beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. They prayed together. No words were exchanged, but she felt his quiet understanding more than any speech.
They took long walks in the woods outside the city, and once, a weekend trip to Munich, to visit the art galleries there. They registered at a nice Gasthof as Herr und Frau Professor Schwarz—no one questioned it. The innkeeper smiled politely and handed them a single room key with the quiet complicity common to such establishments. Where no one knew them, Liesl could be simply a young woman in love, not a debutante with a name that mattered.
In Munich, they spent hours at the Neue Pinakothek, losing themselves in light and brushstroke. Emil stood for nearly twenty minutes before a Böcklin, utterly still. Liesl watched him as much as the painting —saw how he tilted his head, how his lips moved silently with thought. Later, at the Gasthof, they laughed in the small bathroom, trying not to splash water while washing ink from his hands and pastel dust from hers.
She loved him in the whirlwind of the capital and the serenity of the villages nestled around Vienna. Loved him in the mornings, when he read the newspaper aloud in his robe. Loved him when he painted with furrowed brow and ink-stained fingers, or when he smiled at her across a café table.
By the time Advent came, they had slipped into something that resembled a rhythm, if not yet a routine. Liesl returned home when she had to, attended family functions, kept up appearances—but her thoughts often drifted to Emil’s flat, to the warm quiet of their evenings, to the way he touched her like she was something precious, never hurried, never claimed.
In Salzburg, for the Christmas holiday, she was radiant. The kind of glow that no new dress or string of pearls could buy—not in the way debutantes are trained to be, but in the way that comes from deep, secret contentment. Her cheeks glowed from Viennese winter winds, and her eyes sparkled with memories she wouldn’t share.
Her siblings noticed. Especially Friedrich, Louisa, Brigitta, and—surprisingly—Kurt, who had been steadily growing out of his childhood stubbornness and contrariety, and was now changing, as his voice recently had.
“You look even more beautiful,” Friedrich and Kurt said, and Martha and Gretl nodded.
“Liesl, what will we do if you make all men fall in love with you? We will have to stay here at the villa with Mama and Papa forever!” jested Louisa and Brigitta.
“Don’t be silly. It’s just… my life in Vienna has been… very good, very generous. That’s also why I will spend New Year’s Eve with my friends. I hope you will forgive me for that!”
Everyone agreed that seeing her happy was enough to make everyone happy, and she picked up Anna first, who yelled “Beautiful Liesl,” and Florian second, to cuddle with them.
In reality, Maria suspected a secret, and Georg suspected there would be trouble with a young man soon. But Liesl said little. What could she say? That she felt grown now, and not because of age—but because of what she had chosen, and what had chosen her in return.
On New Year’s Eve, Elsa and Max agreed to cover for her: she would officially sleep at their townhouse since she was going to an event with them and her new friends. They trusted Liesl would not do anything too stupid—or that if she did, she would tell them immediately, as to counteract. And anyway, who were they to judge?
“Just don’t do anything that gets me dragged into a duel,” Max teased, lighting a cigar. “Or if you do, make it worth it. Let my demise be as extraordinary as my life.”
In fact, she spent it with Emil and a few of their art and jazz friends, in a rather subdued way when compared to her previous life (she had bought champagne for all, though).
It wasn’t the grand ballroom celebrations of previous years, but it felt more real. The music was good, the talk better, and Emil’s hand never strayed far from hers. When the clock struck midnight, she kissed him as if claiming her future. Later, she slept at his place for the first time in 1931, the year she would become Frau Hoffmann.
Notes:
Remember that the years between the First and the end of the Second World War were not like Regency or Victorian or Kaiser FJ’s times: people had sex (in secret). Also remember that Continental Europe was more promiscuous than other cultures, and Austria and Germany were very promiscuous (my old neighbours and my friends told me very interesting stories, as did chronicles and archives when I was an active researcher). I mean, even my grandmother in Northern Italy married pregnant with my mother, but I seriously doubt there was a single virgin bride in Austria and Germany in those years! ;-)
Chapter 20: Liesl’s greatest adventure (1931)
Summary:
1931 is a pivotal year for the family, filled with journeys that take them from Vienna to Salzburg, Berlin, Hamburg, and finally, London. As Liesl navigates the complexities of adulthood, she faces both professional and personal challenges that test her resilience. This chapter highlights the strength of the children as a united front, with the older siblings forming a "holy alliance" and all the children demonstrating their unique personalities.
The political climate in Austria—with its rising unemployment and paramilitary groups—adds a tense layer to the narrative, and a visit to Berlin reveals a glimpse of the growing National Socialist movement.
Luckily, Liesl is not alone: she relies on the practical advice of her Aunt Elsa and the love of her parents, Maria and Georg, whose passionate relationship brings a new baby on the way.
A major change comes with Uncle Frank's new London estate and his marriage to a vibrant Irish woman. As the year draws to a close, Liesl's new life culminates in a lively celebration with Friedrich and Louisa in the home of an English Earl, hinting at the new possibilities that lie ahead.
Notes:
This is a long chapter (19888 words), similar in length to the next. Please feel free to read it at your own pace.
Note the strong language in some sections. The dialogue reflects a more direct and 'stronger' use of swear words, as it would be in reality in the Austrian/German-speaking parts, which is a stylistic choice.
This chapter contains mature themes, including topics of emotional turmoil and difficult personal situations. While no one dies, some content may be mildly distressing for some readers.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
January meant a lot to Liesl that year.
Ball season had returned. She would attend a few—partly because Elsa insisted, partly because, even as Frau Hoffmann, it was useful to maintain connections. Emil was neither rich nor poor, but his position, combined with her birth and dowry, kept them in the orbit of Vienna’s highest circles.
In just over a month, she would be free to marry. That alone felt incredible.
She and Emil had no desire for a grand society wedding: they planned to marry as soon as they cleared the remaining bureaucratic hurdles. Elsa and Max would likely smuggle in some high-society flair, but Liesl knew her parents would be relieved not to waste time or money on reenacting Franz Josef and Elisabeth’s wedding.
Louisa would turn eighteen on the 15th January, and Florian would turn one on the 22nd January, but the family had already decided to celebrate on the 14th February — a joint birthday party for her, Louisa, Anna, and baby Florian. This way, she from Vienna and Friedrich from Innsbruck could return home for the weekend without stress. It would be a joyful, sprawling family affair, with everyone gathering — even Gromi.
Uncle Frankie had news, and what news!
He had bought an estate in England from “some bankrupt lord,” he declared, and would soon have both a London townhouse and land in Surrey. Also, a young, rich Irish bride, apparently already lined up.
“Land and real estate are important,” he told the family. “The crisis isn’t over. Having land in Surrey, Austria, Italy, and Hungary is good sense—for us, and for the family business.”
“And a good injection of capital through your charmingly rich wife doesn’t hurt either,” Liesl teased.
“You’re too romantic, Liesl. That’ll be your ruin one day,” her uncle teased back.
She found it strange, and a little sad, that arranged marriages still existed, based on politics and land, not love. How different her life would be, soon.
She was walking with Emil through the Palmenhaus in the Burggarten, seeking refuge from the freezing January wind. She thought back, with a wry smile, to how a year ago she had cycled to Steinlechner and back to get gloriously drunk with Friedrich and Louisa. They’d been caught, of course, by their father.
Now Friedrich was a medical student in Innsbruck, and she was walking with her fiancé, discussing the weeks ahead.
“So, darling,” Emil said, “you’re going to Salzburg with the family on the 14th?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “That leaves the 11th for us.”
She squeezed his arm and rested her head on his shoulder.
“And when I come back, we can start planning. I think your bachelor flat will be fine for a start—or should we look for another place right away?”
“My love, it’s up to you. You’re the heiress, and you’re the one moving in,” he teased. Then, after a pause: “You could move in as soon as the 11th. Or after Salzburg, even better. It might be better not to scandalize your parents during your party. I suppose we don’t want Connie or the Auerspergs letting it slip that you’ve already left the townhouse to live in sin with me.”
“Definitely not.”
She paused by a delicate blossom, brushing a petal gently with one gloved finger.
“Emil,” she said, “you know… since we’re getting married this year… it wouldn’t be so terrible if we had a child.”
He turned toward her sharply.
“Are you sure? That’s a big step.”
She met his gaze, steady and calm. “I am. You?”
He hesitated. “I’m not afraid of loving a child. Just… a little afraid of the world we’d bring it into. But yes —we could manage it.”
The 14th February arrived so quickly, and Liesl felt so lucky: lucky to have a huge, loving family; lucky to have Emil. The journey on the train was already festive, with all the family reunited.
At the station, they met Friedrich, who had arrived earlier but waited for the train from Vienna. Although Hans and their father had come by car to pick up as many family members as possible, Friedrich suggested that he, Liesl, and Connie take the train to Aigen.
Friedrich explained, “This time, Mama and Papa have granted us leave to continue partying for a while by ourselves. Gitti and Kurt still have an earlier bedtime, and our champagne’s rationed. But we’ve earned one sitting room to ourselves—or a trip into town, if we don’t get as drunk as last year.”
“When was this decided, Friedrich?”
“When we came back from Vienna, after New Year’s Day. You are missing out on many things, Liesl,” he nudged his sister. “But I guess you two will have lots of adventures from Vienna to report, hey?”
Connie explained, “I am still going to school, Friedrich. And Liesl is a society lady, not to mention a woman with a profession.”
“It’s a pity. I really, really wanted to hear from you what you think is the reason for Liesl’s glow as of late, Connie!”
“Everyone is wondering. I think you should ask Elsa and Max.”
Liesl objected. “They don’t blab if you are on their side, so… forget it!” She stuck her tongue out.
When they were home, Louisa invited Liesl and Friedrich in her own sitting room “to conspire as usual”.
“So, should we repeat our Steinlechner evening or should we dare drive to town? What should we offer Connie?” asked Louisa.
“Why don’t we ask her?” suggested Liesl.
“Because she doesn’t know what Salzburg offers,” answered Louisa.
“Speaking of things one doesn’t know… now that it’s just the three of us… Liesl, come on. What is going on? You look happy, glowing… even more than during the festivities! I am starting to think that there will be soon an important announcement.” Friedrich had been suspecting her sister was in love for a while, now.
Liesl blushed.
Louisa pressed on. “Oh, so Friedrich is right! You are twenty-one now, you can marry whomever you want. I am only wondering why you are not telling anyone! We already know you are ready to marry someone from what Aunt Elsa calls ‘other spheres’, otherwise known as ‘humanity’.”
Friedrich and Liesl cackled. “That was mean, Lou!”
“I mean, you know Rolf was sent away because he was a fucking manipulative National Socialist, and not because he was a postman.”
Liesl nodded. “I know, I know. I cannot stoop lower than that. I was too young, I believe. And still starving for affection. I had begun seeing him when Papa still ignored us. I am so happy that now everything is different.
“Everything… everything, or everything in your love life, Liesl,” Friedrich egged on.
“You will learn everything when the time comes.”
Louisa raised an eyebrow. “That is basically a ‘yes’, Liesl.”
The party took place in the rooms reserved for balls, to leave room for Anna, Gretl, and Martha to play, for Florian to let him walk or crawl, and for everyone to feel more comfortable.
The ballroom sparkled with soft light, casting golden reflections off the crystal glasses and the silver trays. Gretl and Anna were dancing in circles, giggling, while Martha gave Florian a slow waltz in her arms, his face lit up with fascination: spinning was spinning to baby Flo. A gramophone played something jazzy and a little too fast, but no one minded.
Max had brought his own bottle of something French and forbidden, and Maria pretended not to see. Near the buffet, Liesl spotted her uncle Ernst Auersperg earnestly explaining something about mountain artillery to Aunt Elsa, of all people, who was clearly only nodding to be polite (rank above all, thought Elsa).
Across the room, Friedrich twirled Louisa until she nearly crashed into a side table, both of them laughing uncontrollably. Liesl leaned back in her chair, letting the music and voices wrap around her like a shawl, and thought—this might be one of the happiest evenings of her life.
Liesl enjoyed cuddling the two youngest Trapps as usual, and she stopped to think that she might soon have a child of her own. It would be just funny if she had a child and a new brother and sister at the same time (she knew very well that Mama and Papa still had a very passionate relationship… she understood them now more than ever.)
As for the moment of the congratulations by her mother and father, she felt the weight of what would soon happen. She held onto the hug longer than usual. It struck her—this might be the last time she was simply their daughter, not also someone’s betrothed, or wife.
Georg told her during their hug, a little wistfully, “So, now I cannot stop you from anything. I will always protect you, if you ask me to, but now you are an adult woman, on your own.”
Then it was Maria’s turn. “We are always here for you, anyway, darling, no matter your age.” Then, on a less sentimental note, to cheer up Georg (who had felt ‘old’ at the idea of a twenty-one-year-old daughter), “And by the way, Liesl… it’s been three days since you are legally adult, and not a single report of stupid actions has reached us. We are impressed,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.
Let’s just hope they don’t think my decision stupid, Liesl thought.
Luckily, more than questioning Liesl about her social life and her glow, most of the conversation focused on why Louisa refused to have a debut, how Friedrich found Innsbruck, and how Florian was developing his speech.
It was good being back at Emil’s place, after a few days apart.
She arrived on Wednesday evening, just after work, cheeks red from the cold. Before she could knock properly, Emil had already flung open the door. He had lit the flat with candles—unnecessary but irresistible—and picked her up with a grin, spinning her once before carrying her, laughing, to bed.
Later, wrapped in a blanket with soup and tea cooling beside them, Liesl talked animatedly about the party, her family, and Salzburg’s unglamorous February nightlife. “We tried to show Connie a classy night out,” she said, “but ended up slipping down Festunggasse like schoolgirls, after patronising Stiegl Keller. Salzburg in heels is no place for dignity.”
Emil laughed, as usual fascinated by her stories, by the way she belonged to a world full of warmth and noise and teasing siblings. He kissed her hand in that quiet, deliberate way of his.
Then, with a gentleness that almost carried weight, he said:
“Now that the party is over… it’s time to move forward, as we discussed. Nervous?”
“A little,” she admitted. “But I suppose it’s normal.”
He only nodded, his expression unreadable — but in the flickering candlelight, she chose to see hope.
A few evenings later, some of her things already packed for her move and brought over, they had another one of their evenings in, to rest and talk about them, about their future.
She emerged from the bedroom, pulling on her robe with the vague air of someone pretending to be annoyed. Her hair was tousled, her cheeks still warm.
“That,” she announced, “did not help me figure out how to ask my father for my inheritance.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, calling back, “Let’s see if tea helps.”
From the bedroom, Emil's voice came, wry and amused: “Only if you spike it with brandy.”
And just in that moment, Liesl found herself in the presence of a woman, sitting in Emil’s kitchen.
The woman did not look as surprised to see her as Liesl was. She also had something Elsa-like in her air—definitely well-dressed, although maybe not haute couture or tailormade, a little bit of arrogance in her expression.
She looked about Emil’s age, not older than thirty but definitely older than her. And she was definitely examining her from head to toe.
“You are a very beautiful woman. I can understand why a man would do anything for you, even resort to begging,” the mystery woman exclaimed.
Liesl blinked a few times. “I am afraid… I am not following… who the hell are you?”
“Oh-oh, and spirited, too! Emil, I have to say, I cannot disapprove of your taste.”
Liesl heard Emil scramble in the bedroom. She started thinking that she would like technology to develop a means of communication able to summon Uncle Max and Aunt Elsa (or their advice) in the matter of a second, because whatever this was, it looked like an Elsa-and-Max kind of situation.
She decided to act as Elsa would do. “I am afraid you must not have heard me. Who are you, and why are you here?”
Meanwhile, Emil had appeared in the kitchen, too, a shirt and trousers thrown on quickly. The mysterious woman turned to him and said, “So, you haven’t told her at all? Oh, this is going to be fun.”
“Theresa, please…” Emil interjected. So, Emil knew the intruder…
The woman called Theresa interrupted him immediately. “My dear, can you imagine how amusing it was for me to receive this letter from my husband? Please, Theresa, I beg you. She deserves a wedding, and a brief period of courtship before that. We are so much in love. You would never understand. Sign the divorce papers. I will do anything you ask of me.” She waved a letter in her hand. “I guessed, if he resorted to begging me like that and to say that you are so much in love, the situation must have been rather… entertaining. And it was, really. I have been here for a while. You obviously didn’t hear me enter.”
Liesl’s blood had turned to ice, and her knees threatened to give way. She sat, and did not dare look at Emil. She did not want to see his expression right now.
Theresa reprised, “You lost all of your colour, my dear. Well, I guess if I had thought myself betrothed to a man without knowing he was married, and had even let him seduce me, I would too.”
Liesl had to find her voice, and her strength. She inhaled loudly, turned to Emil, and asked, “Is this true? Any of it?”
But Emil’s expression had already told her everything she needed to know.
Liesl reprised, “You never had the courage to tell me that you were married, albeit separated, and that you were still waiting for a divorce?”
Emil shook his head.
“You thought that I would not understand? That I would not wait?”
Theresa cut in. “He thought he would be able to convince me to sign the papers before the official engagement. If you think about it, it makes sense. The problem, my dear, is that I am never going to sign those papers. We have been separated for almost three years. Emil’s position and income are rather respectable; besides, a married woman enjoys more liberty than an unmarried one, and certainly none of the problems of a divorced one.”
Liesl stood slowly, as if afraid her legs would betray her. She glanced toward Emil—one final chance. He wouldn’t even meet her gaze.
“So,” she said, her voice thin with effort. “You brought me here. You let me think this was my home now. While your wife had a key.”
“She was never supposed to—”
Liesl cut him off with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Oh, spare me your shame. That’s all you have now—shame and excuses.”
Theresa tilted her head, like a cat toying with a mouse. “Honestly, if you weren’t so charming, I might even pity you. But you are terribly, terribly charming.”
That’s when something inside Liesl snapped.
She marched toward the bedroom, got dressed summarily, then grabbed the nearest bag and flung open drawers. “Don't,” Emil started, stepping toward her.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed, her voice shattering the air. “Don’t you dare.”
He froze.
She began throwing clothes in, barely folding, barely seeing.
“I gave you everything, Emil. I trusted you. I loved you. You told me you loved me. And now I get her in your kitchen, with her smug little comments and her liberty and her key?”
Theresa leaned against the doorframe, clearly enjoying the show.
“Oh, Emil, you should at least choose them with less personality. I hoped she would accept to be your mistress, just to be with you. Instead, this one might even slap you on the way out!”
“Fuck off!” Liesl shouted, the words raw in her throat.
Even Theresa blinked at that.
Emil made one last attempt. “Liesl, please… I do love you… I am just a prisoner… a victim…”
Unfortunately, in saying so, he had blocked her way out of the room. Liesl was still very much Georg’s daughter, and even those touches of Agathe and Maria she bore in her let her react the proper way.
A sounding slap on his face made him move to the side. She felt sorry to give that horrible woman satisfaction, but he deserved that.
“I never want to see either of you again,” Liesl rasped. “A liar, and a sadist. You might give it another try. Maybe you could be happy, this time.”
She looked at Emil one last time, eyes wet, jaw trembling.
“I would’ve waited. I would’ve understood. But you didn’t even try.”
Then she was gone, the slam of the door echoing long after.
Where her apartments in the townhouse had once looked as though someone had just stepped out gracefully, they now resembled a place abandoned mid-flight. A suitcase and a bag lay haphazardly by the door. And a broken heart, buried somewhere inside.
Liesl had cried until her skin ached, until her breath came in hiccups, until the sounds she made no longer resembled grief but something older, more primal. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. The rooms felt airless. Her robe still carried the faintest trace of his cologne, and even her skin—especially her skin — felt haunted by him.
Her drawings and sketches were still in their boxes, waiting. At one point, she considered throwing them all into the fire, but then that stupid flicker of hope, the one that whispered Maybe it will all work out in the end, stopped her.
She spent several days like this, forcing herself to work from home, crying in between tasks, the days blurring into dusk.
Come Saturday, she picked up the telephone with shaking hands and called Connie.
“I need to get completely intoxicated. It’s on me.”
They ended up in a jazz club Connie knew—all velvet walls and low lights, where brass notes drifted like smoke across the crowd. Liesl didn’t just drink; she dove headfirst into the bottle. Then another. Her words swayed somewhere between declarations and regrets. She tried to dance, but mostly swayed, laughed too loudly, and finally ended up sobbing in the powder room.
Connie stayed. She didn’t ask questions. She simply fetched napkins and turned away every man who tried to approach.
By the time Elsa’s discreet chauffeur came to fetch them, Liesl had blacked out completely.
She woke the next morning with a dry mouth and a throbbing skull. Her makeup had vanished, and her hair was a knotted halo. The pieces of the past week pressed against her like broken glass.
Rolf. Emil.
Two names. Two ghosts.
She had been sold a lie—again—and worse, she had willingly bought it, even wrapped it in ribbon and called it love. But Emil truly loved me, not like Rolf, she told herself. But the echo came back harder: And look where it brought you.
It was days later when she remembered that they'd spoken about a child. Light-hearted, vague. But now the thought struck like thunder.
Would she be carrying his child, a permanent reminder of her biggest mistake?
She considered waiting. Wait until the calendar tells you it’s time to worry, she told herself. But her hands were already trembling.
The nightmares were not easing. Her work was beginning to slip. Even the smallest tasks exhausted her.
There was only one thing left to do.
She put on a clean blouse, brushed her hair, and went to Aunt Elsa’s to tell her everything.
She had postponed, because saying the truth aloud would make it real.
And Elsa, at least, would know what to do.
Elsa was ready to receive Liesl in all of her usual splendour, thinking the young woman might be coming to announce happy news—or to share some gossips from the circles she had been seeing as of late.
But when Liesl burst through the door, eyes red from crying, shaking, and with no preamble, collapsing into the Queen of Vienna’s society arms, the room seemed to tilt. Elsa, always poised and unruffled, froze for a moment.
Max, who had come across the scene while on his way out, tried to joke. “Something here looks like Uncle Max’s got to find someone to duel for him. I wonder if Count von Montecuccoli would do it, out of…”
Elsa, with a glare cold enough to silence an orchestra, interrupted him: “Max, darling. You were leaving. And I insist you continue doing so.”
Elsa set Liesl down gently on the divan, sitting beside her, her hands hovering for a second, unsure —accustomed to pens, flutes, and perfumes, not tears and tremors.
“Liesl, dear, what on earth has happened?” she asked, her voice calm but laced with concern.
Liesl’s sobs came harder now, and all Elsa could do was let her release the emotion. She said nothing for a moment, letting the silence settle around them, until, finally, Liesl began her story.
Elsa listened in silence, staring at her intently, only sipping some lemonade and smoking a cigarette occasionally. She didn’t interrupt; she didn’t ask questions; she didn’t judge; she didn’t even flinch.
When Liesl had finished her story, Elsa didn’t change her expression. She simply pulled out a cigarette, and offered it to the young woman.
“You are now going to smoke this cigarette with me, Liesl.”
She struck the match with a flick that echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room, then held the flame steady for Liesl’s cigarette like a priestess performing a rite.
She then rang the bell, and had the maid fetch them brandy. She poured two glasses, and left them on the table, unattended.
Then she inhaled, and began her piece.
“I know you probably came here imagining something like Max and myself organising an intricate plan for revenge—or at least to get rid of the inconvenient woman. But this is not what I am going to say. I am not even going to speak about the day I noticed him admiring you, or the one we covered for you.”
She puffed her cigarette, and checked whether Liesl wanted to say anything.
“I am going to say this. Liesl, what your story just told me is that you fell in love, and your love was returned. You then got to live this love, even the passion that comes with it, for a few months. Do you know how many people die without ever experiencing what you have just experienced? Do you think the world is made of people as lucky as your father, who first has his fairy tale with Agathe and then had a second one with Maria?
I have never had my heart broken, so I must rely on your father and on you entirely, as well as on a few other acquaintances. It must hurt. It almost destroyed your father. I see it is destroying you. But then… life goes on, Liesl. Even for those who never find another love. And people like you—you will always have those beautiful memories to carry with you. The good ones. Forget the rest. Living a passion like that is rare, Liesl. I, for one, will never know what it means.”
Liesl’s eyebrow rose in scepticism.
“I really hope your parents didn’t tell you I am madly in love with Max and he with me, because that’s not why we married. We are friends, we are companions, we are partners in this big game that is society, and we play the game better than anyone else. Our goal is power, fame, and shine. Together, we can win every game.”
Liesl took another cigarette without even asking.
“Back to your situation. What about your virginity? My dear, many white dresses are only there for show. White dresses are costumes. They signify nothing except fabric choice. And as for babies—Vienna is full of ‘premature births’ delivered at a very robust seven, seven and a half months. It is all a game. If no one knows, and if there is no scandal being passed around in sitting rooms, who cares? You are beautiful, educated, and rich. No one will care whether you are a virgin or not. You are not Maria the former governess marrying her employer, darling.”
Liesl’s eyes went wide open.
“And about a possible pregnancy: do you think you are the first one to find herself in such a situation? Women have always tried to help each other. The first thing we are going to do is wait. Maybe you are just worrying for nothing.
Then? If there are signs, we will find a discrete doctor to confirm it.
Then? You have options, Liesl.
You can go on a journey for a while, and have the child brought up by some relative or friend or acquaintance. Or by someone in the neighbourhood, paid by you. Or adopted, if you want to forget.
You can even keep the child. You are a beautiful heiress. You will find a husband even with a child. Scandals fade out after a while. And your parents will forgive you, sooner or later.
Or there are other solutions. We don’t talk about them much, but we women know where to go and what to do if you don’t want that child.
You are not alone, Liesl. You just need time. It will all be well.”
And they toasted to that with the brandy.
With Elsa’s wise words in her mind, Liesl went back to her life.
She rationally agreed with all Elsa had said. It all made sense, and she was ready to adopt her philosophy.
What her heart told her, unfortunately, was not the same. And with her rationality and her heart battling, life was getting hard for Liesl. Getting up in the morning, doing her job, smiling at people, getting out of the house at all.
She tried to talk to the newspaper and agree on a few days off, then hopped on the train to Salzburg, and from there to Aigen.
It was a sunny day of early spring. Despite the chill, she saw her parents playing in front of the villa with Anna and Florian, and her heart leapt.
Anna saw her first. “Liesl! Liesl!”
And she ran towards her sister, picking her up and kissing her, then did the same with Florian.
Then she looked at her parents.
“Oh… I am so happy to see you!” And she burst into tears on her father’s chest.
Luckily, the nanny was available to watch the children despite their previous schedule, so Maria and Georg invited Liesl into the study to discuss undisturbed.
“Darling, this will always be your home, but… you make us worry. You come here unannounced and you start crying like that in your father’s arms.”
Georg added, “And you are still crying. We haven’t seen you like that… in years.” He didn’t have the courage to mention Rolf.
Liesl sniffled. “I just… needed to see you, that’s all. I missed you.”
Maria urged on, “You looked so happy, so glowing… and now this. You make us worry. Won’t you tell us what happened?” She noticed Georg fidgeting with the drawer where he kept his gun. Bad, bad sign.
On the other hand, could she blame him for thinking of all the worst scenarios, considering the few elements they had? She would stop him from doing stupid things, of course, but she could understand the feeling.
“Mama, Papa, can I please just stay here for a while? I just need my family, that’s all.”
That’s all. It wasn’t, but they could not force it out of her.
Hugging Brigitta, Kurt, Martha, and Gretl was good, too. But she longed for Louisa, not just their hugs, but their bond.
To her, she told everything—her story, and Elsa’s advice. She knew Louisa would never, ever tell anyone. Not even Friedrich.
Louisa did suggest to call Friedrich, to ask him to come from Innsbruck, but Liesl refused. “I will come back on a weekend when he is visiting. After all, I could never tell him anything. You know that he refuses to think that a member of the family might ever… you know. Besides, he would most likely try to find him and beat him into a pulp.”
“It doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me. Speaking of which: you know I could always set her house on fire? With or without her inside. Your choice.”
Liesl swatted her. “Lou!”
“I made you smile, see? The only problem is: setting the house on fire with her inside might push you back into the arms of that liar. Nah, I’ll do it without her. A pity, though, you only slapped him.”
The following day, Liesl sat cross-legged on a blanket in the garden, the sun playing peekaboo through the trees. Anna insisted they build a ‘castle’ for Florian, who was much more interested in toppling it with enthusiastic grunts and delighted claps.
“Careful,” Anna giggled, “a dragon attack!”
“Dagon,” Florian declared, right before throwing himself into the pile of cushions and sticks.
Liesl laughed. A real laugh, one that surprised her. It escaped her lips before she could filter it, and she put a hand to her mouth as if she’d stolen something.
Anna flopped down beside her, brushing leaves from her skirt. “Mama says you’re sad.”
“I am a little.”
Anna pondered that, frowning like an old soul in a little girl’s body. “When I’m sad, I like to tell someone. Or I run until I forget.”
Florian crawled into Liesl’s lap, curled up like a kitten, and yawned.
“You’re sad too?” Liesl whispered to him, stroking his hair. He didn't answer—just sighed and nestled closer. His little heartbeat, steady and trusting, pulsed through her.
Anna leaned on her elbow and looked up at her. “You’d be a good Mama, you know.”
Liesl blinked, caught between tears and disbelief, then gave a trembling smile and looked down at her sweet little brother curled into her chest.
And for a moment, her heart felt full. Still broken—but not empty.
Liesl woke early. Not from sleep, but from lying awake all night. She padded barefoot into the small sitting room off her bedroom. Everything felt too quiet. Even the birds were cautious.
She checked the date again. She was certain—but also not. She was second-guessing everything.
What if I’m carrying part of him?
How would I raise a child born of silence and shame?
Her hands were shaking, as she was trying not to cry, not to panic.
A knock on the door announced the arrival of Louisa. She entered quietly, then saw Liesl pale and coiled like a spring, her calendar in her hands.
Louisa walked over, then sat on the floor next to her. “I figured. I am here for you, always.”
Liesl just nodded at first. Then cried, not for the first time, but the first time for this new reason.
Louisa held her, their bond so old and deep, from the lawns of Pola to the fear of Zell am See, from the grief of Klosterneuburg to their newfound happiness in Salzburg. And now to this.
“What if I want the baby? What does that say about me?”
Louisa said softly: “It says you loved someone. That’s all.”
As it was almost predictable—because fate liked cruel timing—a few hours after voicing her doubts out loud for Louisa to hear, Liesl had felt the unmistakable cramp low in her belly.
She went to the bathroom in silence, her hands trembling just slightly. The confirmation came quickly. No child.
She sat there longer than necessary, staring at the tiled floor, her thoughts empty and full at once. It was over. No second line. No sleepless nights with a crying infant. No decisions to make. No cradle.
No tie.
Her body had made the choice for her.
Later, her father had tried to ‘accidentally’ meet her in the corridor, then her mother intercepted her by the stairs—each clearly hoping she would open up. But Liesl was not ready. Not for gentle interrogations, not for worried eyes.
She bought a small book for Kurt's birthday—sixteen, already—and wandered the shops longer than necessary, delaying the inevitable. When Louisa finally returned from school, Liesl was waiting on the window bench in their shared room, hugging a pillow like a lifeline.
She cried again with Louisa.
“I’m sorry. You’ll soon tire of me.” Her voice was rough, halfway between apology and resignation.
Louisa didn’t hesitate. “If I can survive Kurt’s impersonation of Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries every morning, I can survive you crying.”
Liesl laughed wetly, then shook her head. “I just realised… I probably wanted the baby. Not just out of fear, or guilt, but... a part of me hoped. It would’ve been something to show that he and I—” her voice cracked, “—that we were real. Now it’s like we never existed.”
Louisa wanted to say Thank God. He doesn’t deserve that kind of memory. But the look in Liesl’s eyes stopped her. There was no room now for cold comfort or sharp wisdom. Only softness.
So, she said nothing. She held her, silently. Then helped her wash her face, brush her hair, and pick a sweater for dinner.
The evening would go on. The world would turn. But something had ended. Quietly, definitively.
At dinner, Kurt, never one to miss an opportunity for jest, pulled out Liesl’s chair, a clear mimicry of his father’s romantic gestures towards his mother. He accepted his birthday present with an overblown formality, even bowing as a baroque gentleman. He animated the entire dinner.
“You haven’t heard, Liesl. Martha and Gretl have decided they want to become professional football or volleyball players,” he announced with unrestrained glee, looking pointedly at his father.
The two girls nodded with fierce enthusiasm. Georg’s fork clinked against his plate as his eyebrows shot up, a furrow deepening between them, while a suppressed chuckle seemed to bubble just beneath the surface, threatening to escape the corners of his mouth.
Maria did not suppress the chuckle. “Darling, I only brought volleyball to the house. The football expert has always been you. The damage was already done.”
With mock desperation, Georg commented, “Martha is also considering following into Liesl’s steps and become a translator. Let’s just hope that intuition wins.”
“Papa, I can do both,” was Martha’s answer, while Gretl muttered, “Overachiever!”
Georg threaded his fingers between his hair, keeping up his act of the strict father. He then looked at Liesl, and he was heartened by seeing her participate in the family fun, although her face still bore the signs of her suffering. He exchanged a look with Maria, a silent language passing between them that acknowledged both the welcome sound of Liesl's laughter and the faint shadows still clinging to her eyes.
As bedtime approached for the older children too, Kurt, towering like his father now, offered Liesl a hand. But then, with a mischievous grin, he crouched down. “Hark, my lady,” he announced, a mock bow in his posture, “your loyal...” He chuckled, abandoning the pretence. “...hop on. Upstairs we go.” He hoisted her onto his back, Brigitta and Louisa following close behind, their amusement mingling with the lingering sounds of the evening, and their caution keeping them ready to intervene, should Kurt fail miserably.
Georg reminded them, his arms still crossed over his chest in a gesture of mock sternness, “No secret parties with excessive consumption of alcohol, remember.” Maria slipped her arm between his, her hand resting warmly on his forearm. She leaned into him, her head briefly touching his shoulder, and he responded by briefly squeezing her hand with his free one. Watching Kurt's easy strength as he carried Liesl, her face softened. “Georg,” she murmured, her gaze following them up the stairs, “will all our boys be copies of you? Kurt’s face… it’s so much yours now, even more than Friedrich’s, hair aside. And little Florian already has that same stubborn set to his jaw. And your hair.”
The siblings did have their secret party, in Liesl’s sitting room as in the past, with just a little bit of smuggled Schnaps and some talk.
Kurt kept Liesl close, his arm a steady weight around her shoulders. He jested about their parents' predictable ‘bedtime routine’, earning soft giggles, but his eyes kept returning to Liesl with concern. Nonetheless, all three girls suspected he was rather serious when he said:
“I know someone hurt you. Just give me a name, a description, and an address. I am far more efficient than Friedrich— no need for those flowery speeches— and definitely less likely to be detected than Papa, who would likely charge in with all his medals gleaming.”
Liesl left again for Vienna, hoping that her profession would shake her out of her pain. Her job still gave her purpose—just enough pressure to force her out of bed each morning.
But the fire she needed wasn’t there. Not in Vienna. Not in the applause of a smoky theatre, not in Elsa’s sparkling events.
She went back to Salzburg for a few days, to see Friedrich who was picking up a few more things from his room.
“I wish I had been here when you came last time, Liesl.” He hugged her tightly, and walked with her a little before it would rain again. “At that party in February, you didn’t deny something big was coming. And now this. The others have already written all their thoughts about this. What happened, did it end badly?”
Liesl stared into nothing for a while. “I cannot tell you, Friedrich. You know very well why. Not because I don’t trust you. But because some things make you look away.”
Friedrich blushed, then offered “If you want it, just know I’ll punch the bastard if I ever get the chance.”
She gave him a tired smile. “You’d be behind Kurt in line.”
He nodded. “Of course. The man’s practically built for vengeance.”
After a silence, he added, “Louisa knows, doesn’t she?”
Liesl didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.
“At least I know you unburdened yourself with someone,” glossed Friedrich.
Georg announced, “Well, Friedrich truly doesn’t know, but he had inferred that Liesl might have announced, and I quote, something big soon, only to end up like this. So, he thinks a man disappointed her. That’s all.”
Maria added, “Louisa admitted she knows, but she refuses to talk. Says it’s not her story to tell, and Liesl will be all right anyway, sooner or later.”
Georg cracked his fingers, and Maria reacted to his nervous fidgeting. “You know, I had thought that maybe she was… but it doesn’t seem likely, if Friedrich is right in his assumptions. Louisa’s words are more… cryptical, but seem to point in Friedrich’s way, rather than something direr.”
Georg looked sharply at her. “I don’t know. But if she had been… she would have gone to the police. She’s not… not someone to just hide that. She knows she has the entire family behind her.”
Maria sighed. “There are other explanations for why she might not want to tell us. Maybe it’s about the man himself. Or the way things were between them. She might fear what we’d think. I just hope she doesn’t believe our faith would ask her to suffer for it.”
Georg’s head snapped up. “She knows we’d be there for her. That we’d either forgive her or fight for her.”
Maria’s voice was calm. “But not everyone who is hurt wants a fight. Sometimes they just want to forget.”
Georg ran a hand over his face. “If someone did hurt her—I need to know whether to fight… or forgive. That’s all.”
Maria looked at him. “There’s no one to forgive but the one who did the hurting. And we may never know who that was. We will just have to help her build her trust in life and love back.” She then touched his forearm. “And, Georg, there’s no fight here. Only healing. And that doesn’t need fists: it needs patience, and love.”
Elsa and Max had invited her to watch the Boheme by Puccini in their box. It was to be a huge society event, and Elsa also argued that it would be a cathartic experience for her—love and tragedy among destitute artist on the stage.
She held on for a while; then, the dying soprano, the soaring aria, the candlelight—she cracked. Elsa and Max didn’t flinch.
Elsa, cool as ever, took off her glove, reached over, and quietly placed her hand over Liesl’s without turning her eyes from the stage. Max didn’t say a word. But later, in the car, he remarked: “There are worse places to break than Puccini.”
There was no catharsis. Only realisation.
Liesl had gone to Klosterneuburg to leave a flower on Agathe’s grave, and to ask her forgiveness—and perhaps, her advice.
She remembered, then, how her father had moved them all to Salzburg as soon as he could, fleeing Klosterneuburg’s ghosts.
And now she understood what she had to do. She thanked her heavenly mother, and began to shape the words she would soon speak to her new mother and her father—who both still loved her, deeply.
She had lasted a little over a year in Vienna. That, in itself, was something. But now, it was time to begin again, somewhere else.
She left the sketches, paintings, and drawings at Elsa’s, as a thank you. They were beautiful; they just didn’t have room anymore in her life.
“Liesl, you are very sweet helping with your siblings, especially with Florian and Anna. And we are sure you love them. But you are a young woman. You refused to come with us to the theatre, the opera, the cinema; you refuse to interact with the outside world.” Maria and Georg had discussed their daughter’s progress—or lack thereof—often. They had often lain awake, worrying whether their daughter was quietly folding herself into the background of a house she no longer needed to impress.
“You are both very kind, but it’s not like I never experienced social life before. I just don’t feel like it. I am happy spending time with you talking about what has been going on—things are deteriorating in this country, I feel. Or about the estate. And then spending time with my siblings.”
“Liesl, we have all agreed that paramilitary groups rejecting democracy is a dire omen for our country. But we, as parents, are not only used to caring for more than one issue; we also would always put our children first. We want you to live a life, not this half-life.”
Elsa brought her to Ischl for a week, but not even the thermal town seemed to cure her.
Elsa took Liesl for strolls along the Esplanade, dined with her at the Kurhaus, and even tried arranging a luncheon with some young women her age. But Liesl remained politely distant, smiling only when older men nodded to Elsa in admiration, as if that world still made sense. She had brought a book of Italian poetry instead of a dress for the operetta, and even the mineral baths failed to spark a change. Elsa, for once, did not scold her. She just sighed, and let her sit in silence.
The only success for the summer was Elsa, Georg and Maria bringing her to the Salzburg Festival opening, after a lot of convincing.
“Liesl, would you mind beginning a new adventure?”
Liesl looked away. She was wary of that word now—‘adventure’ had once meant Rolf’s passionate speeches, or Emil offering her a new life with him—and then, nothing at all. But this was not about love. It was about air. And motion. And the hope that something different might be better, or at least quieter, inside her.
“Uncle Frankie says he might land you an interesting opportunity to work as a secretary and translator in London! He also would love to have some company for his wife, to have her practice German and Italian. Maybe a complete change of scenery might help you. And a new experiment, to learn something new.” Maria was sure Frankie’s suggestion was godsend.
Georg also added, showing concern for the direction many of his former comrades had taken, “It might even be the occasion to discuss with someone important, someone abroad, how this country seems to be headed the same way Italy is, if not worse. Everyone worries about Hitler alone, just because he poses a bigger threat to the former Allies’ plans for Europe. But if people start shooting themselves on the streets to deal with unemployment and nostalgia… that is going to be the ruin of Europe, I know it.”
Liesl thought about it for a while, then decided. She could always come back, as per her parents’ words. So, she said yes.
It was September 1931, and everyone was lined up again outside the villa to say Liesl goodbye. Liesl tried to defuse the tension with “Nothing new, just me leaving for an adventure—a job and a new capital city, again.”
She had had a private party with Friedrich, Louisa, Kurt, Brigitta, and Connie already—always under the commandment of “no excesses”. Just a few beers and jokes at Steinlechner, again, since Kurt and Brigitta could not accompany her to Hamburg via Berlin like the others. She had played more with Martha, Gretl, Anna, and Florian. The last piece of the puzzle would be journeying to Berlin to see Marlene Dietrich, then to Hamburg, from where she would sail to Southampton, alone.
She hugged tightly and kissed everyone, as Trapp law ordered. She announced to Kurt, “Don’t worry. When you turn eighteen, in 1933, we will go back and see Marlene Dietrich in Berlin all together again. And then again in 1934, with Gitti.”
“What about us?” asked Gretl, Martha nodding next to her.
“We will see who is the main star by the time you are eighteen, darling. But probably, yes!”
Maria reminded her, “We have told you already many times, but always remember that we are family, we love each other, and there will always be a room, open arms, and love for each of you.” She stifled a sob. “But London… is not Vienna. You will visit less. More letters, more telegrams, even more phone calls—if they come through. But we will manage.” Even Georg nodded and let out a tear.
Then the three oldest and their cousin were brought to the station by Georg, and a new adventure started.
The streets of Berlin were a whirlwind of activity, a stark contrast to the quiet formality of Salzburg. Cars honked, people shouted, and the air thrummed with a restless energy that both thrilled and unsettled them.
They drank on it. They had been to Munich before, of course; but this… this was different. They had lined up museums, cafés, jazz establishments, and walks already, not to mention their Marlene Dietrich show. But they had to squeeze as much as possible in only a few days—a ship was waiting for Liesl in Hamburg; university was waiting for Friedrich, Louisa, and even Connie (thanks to Georg’s meddling).
So, they made the most of their time, by constantly jumping from one idea to another, sleeping only the minimum necessary, as only young people could do. And Liesl seemed to revel in it, finally, free of all ghosts of past lovers in the streets of the beautiful German capital.
One day, as they strolled down Unter den Linden, they passed a group of men shouting slogans, their faces contorted with anger, their lapels adorned with pins. A shiver ran down Connie's spine, though she couldn't explain why.
The siblings could. “National Socialists. The even more extreme version of Italian fascism and of our Heimwehr.”
Connie was puzzled. “You don’t support the Heimwehr? I would have thought Uncle Georg…”
“Papa is a democratic monarchist, and has progressive stances on several issues. He definitely does not approve of paramilitary organisations prone to consider ‘socialism’ paying wages to workers.”
Connie was rather taken aback by this revelation; but then again, the family tried to keep their ideas private, between Elsa’s ban on political discussions and the difficulty of being rich aristocrats with more progressive views than other people.
The air crackled with anticipation as the curtain rose at the Theater am Schiffbauerdamm. Liesl, Friedrich, Louisa, and Connie leaned forward, mesmerized as Marlene Dietrich stepped into the spotlight, her voice sultry and her presence magnetic, her gaze cool and commanding.
She moved with a languid grace, each gesture precise and deliberate, holding the audience spellbound with her restrained energy. She wore a sleek, tailored suit, defying conventional femininity with an air of dangerous glamour.
Then her eyes met theirs, holding their gaze as she sang, making each of them feel as if she were singing to them alone.
“Kurt is going to hate us for this.” Kurt had always been very vocal about his admiration for Dietrich, especially with Friedrich.
“I could wear my hair like her,” suggested Louisa.
“Lou, your hair is straight and fine! You’d get mad coiffing it… and you’d ruin it!” Liesl was the authority in all things glamour, of course.
“Well, then I could,” Connie announced.
Then it was time to say goodbye to Liesl, her ship awaiting at the port of Hamburg, and with it, her new life.
Louisa echoed her words in Salzburg. “Well, nothing new—just you heading off into another capital,” she said with a half-smile.
Liesl smirked, hugging them fiercely. “Yes. But this time, I’m writing everything down.”
“One in London, one in Innsbruck, one in Graz, and one in Vienna. There will be a lot of writing. Fighting unemployment in the stationery industry.”
“And yet, we will manage to stay in touch, and to meet, I just know it.”
Uncle Frankie’s townhouse was in Mayfair. It didn’t get more privileged than that—or, better yet, posh. His Catholic Irish wife, Eileen O’Connor, was warm, easy-going, and remarkably even-tempered. The couple may not have married for love—Liesl certainly didn’t seem to recognise the quiet intensity that had marked Liesl’s parents’ bond—but they were clearly content. Relaxed in each other’s company, even companionable.
Liesl was glad. She imagined that being around such a couple would provide the serenity she needed, without any painful reminders of what it meant to love and be loved. And she looked forward to practising Eileen’s German, Italian, and French, and improving her own English.
“You are my second Irish aunt, you know? Aunt Constance is the other, but she has been living in Austria for so long now. Her daughter, Constanze, accompanied me to Hamburg with Friedrich and Louisa. She taught me a little bit of Irish slang and lore.” Liesl cut it short to avoid embarrassing discussions about the difference between a woman sent to work as a governess in Vienna and marrying for love, and a woman sent to England to marry wealth and multiply it.
“I am looking forward to getting to know the rest of the family. You all sound so charming. And you are a beauty, my dear. I don’t understand why you are taking up a job. In your position, we could just enjoy society together, and you’d be a success.”
Frankie explained, “Darling, that’s just Maria, and surprisingly even Georg. They say times are changing. Young people need a proper occupation. At least until they have their own houses—or estates—and families”
When Liesl arrived at her new place of work, the House of Lords loomed like a cathedral of power, its spires piercing the foggy London sky. She felt a flutter of nerves—not unlike her first day at the Neue Freie Presse. There, she’d worked on her own terms, often alone, her desk a fortress of dictionaries and deadlines. Here, she was in a foreign country, stepping into the heart of British tradition—though Agathe’s blood and her uncle’s London ties made it feel like a half-remembered home.
An usher named Tompkins, a wiry young man with a kind smile and a slightly crooked tie, led her through echoing corridors to the administrative wing. “Don’t let the place intimidate you, Miss von Trapp,” he said, his Cockney lilt warm. “It’s all bluster and tea breaks, really.” Liesl managed a shy laugh, clutching her satchel of dictionaries and notebooks, her fingers brushing the worn leather that had travelled with her from Salzburg to Vienna and now here.
The secretaries’ office was a hive of activity, its high ceilings and tall windows dwarfing the rows of desks piled with typewriters and papers. The air buzzed with the clatter of keys, the murmur of voices, and the occasional trill of a telephone. Women in neat blouses and wool skirts darted glances her way, their curiosity as palpable as the scent of ink and lavender water. Liesl’s heart thudded—she was more scared of these colleagues than of the Lords debating tariffs or empires down the hall.
Tompkins cleared his throat. “Ladies, gentlemen—this is Elisabeth von Trapp, your new colleague. She speaks German, English, Italian, and French, so mind your manners when you’re gossiping.” He winked at Liesl. “I hope you’ll all welcome her wholeheartedly.”
A ripple of smiles and nods greeted her, though Liesl felt every eye assessing her navy dress (simple but tailored, thanks to Aunt Eileen’s insistence) and the dark hair pinned neatly under her cloche hat. She offered a small wave, cheeks warming. “Please, call me Liesl,” she said softly, her mind already racing with questions: What will they think of my accent? Of me? she couldn’t help but wonder.
Tompkins guided her to a desk near a window, still carrying her books. “Here you are, Miss—er, Liesl. Best view of the Thames, if you squint past the fog.” He set her dictionaries down with a flourish, earning a giggle from the secretary at the next desk, a lively brunette named Doris Wheeler.
“Don’t mind Tompkins,” Doris said, leaning over with a grin. “He fancies himself a knight, but he’s harmless. You’re the Austrian girl, then? Word’s already spread—you’re niece to that Mr Whitehead who’s bought a chunk of Mayfair and half of Surrey.”
Liesl blushed. “Only a quarter, I think,” she said, and Doris laughed, her hazel eyes twinkling.
“You’ll fit right in,” Doris added, lowering her voice. “Just watch out for the lords when you’re fetching papers. Some of ’em think a smile means you’re angling for a coronet.” She winked, and Liesl couldn’t help but smile back.
Another secretary, Muriel Kent, older and with a schoolmarmish air, joined in from across the aisle. “Oh, Doris, don’t scare her off! Though she’s not wrong, Liesl. The House of Lords is a fine place to catch an eligible peer—if you’ve a mind to. Not that we’re all husband-hunting, mind you.” Her tone was dry, but her eyes were kind.
Liesl’s thoughts flickered to Uncle Frank and Aunt Eileen. Had they sent her here hoping she’d charm a peer? She pushed the thought aside, arranging her pencils with a bashful nod to Doris and Muriel. Her job, she’d been told, was mostly secretarial—typing letters, filing reports—but her languages would be a boon for international correspondence, translating German trade proposals, Italian contracts, or French diplomatic notes. She’d also help with foreign names or phrases, a task that felt like slipping into a favourite dress.
By mid-morning, the office paused for tea, a ritual Liesl hadn’t expected to feel so comforting. A trolley rattled in, laden with a chipped teapot, mismatched cups, and a tin of digestive biscuits. Doris beckoned her to a corner where a few staff gathered, their chatter a lively hum. “Come on, Liesl, no hiding behind your dictionaries,” Doris teased, handing her a steaming cup.
Liesl joined them, her nerves easing as she sipped the strong, milky tea. Besides Doris and Muriel, there was Clara Bell, a shy blonde with wire-rimmed glasses who worked in the library and clutched a dog-eared copy of Mrs. Dalloway. “You’ve read Woolf?” Clara asked timidly, spotting Liesl’s curious glance. Liesl nodded, mentioning a Vienna bookshop where she’d found English novels, and Clara’s face lit up. Then there was Freddie Marsh, a cheeky usher with a mop of red hair, who boasted about sneaking into a lords’ debate to “learn politics.”
“Learn politics?” Doris scoffed, nibbling a biscuit. “You were eyeing Lord Pembroke’s daughter, more like. Not that any of us can judge you harshly—half the girls here dream of a peer sweeping them off to a country pile.”
Muriel rolled her eyes. “Speak for yourself, Doris. Some of us have typing to do.” But she smiled, offering Liesl the biscuit tin. “What about you, Liesl? Left a sweetheart in Vienna, or are you fair game for our lords?”
Liesl’s smile faltered, a shadow of her heartbreak crossing her mind. “No sweethearts,” she said lightly, deflecting with a sip of tea. “Just work, for now.”
Doris leaned closer, undeterred. “Well, stick with us, and we’ll show you London proper—not the stuffy balls your aunt might drag you to. There’s a tea room in Bloomsbury we love, and a jazz place off Soho where the band’s divine. You dance, don’t you?”
“I do,” Liesl admitted, her eyes brightening. How would a jazz establishment in London look like compared to an Austrian one?
“Then it’s settled,” Freddie declared, stealing a biscuit. “Friday night, we’re kidnapping you for cocktails and chaos. No lords allowed—unless they’re buying.”
The group laughed, and Liesl felt a warmth she hadn’t known since… before that scene in the kitchen in Emil’s flat. As they returned to their desks, Doris whispered, “You’re one of us now, Liesl. Don’t let this place—or those coronets—fool you. It’s the fun we make that counts.”
Liesl nodded, her fingers brushing her notebook. London, she thought, might just teach her to live again.
The first foray into London’s life was a simple tea room, the Cadena Café. Doris drug her there after work on Thursday, with Clara and Freddie in tow. They gossiped about office scandals (a secretary caught flirting with a clerk) and teased her about her elegance—“You’re too posh for us, but we’ll keep you.”
“Oh, dear, you wouldn’t say that if you knew what I was up to, especially some of my later adventures with my older siblings.” And so, she told them of her democratic monarchist and war hero father, of Mamá Agathe, then of her six older siblings and their loving progressive governess Maria who stole all of their hearts and was now her new Mama, with two more Trapps already here. She told them about their sportive feats, about their love for music—including jazz—and about her most exciting and embarrassing evenings with Friedrich, Louisa, Connie, and her friends.
She left out her father’s barony, the Trapp estate’s wealth, and those glittering nights at balls all around Austria, where she’d danced with counts. Better to be seen as a girl sent to Uncle Frank—a rich uncle, yes, but doing a favour to a sprawling family stretched thin by nine children in a time when things seemed to turn to the worst again.
The group reacted with laughter and tears to the peculiar story, seeming to buy that Liesl’s job was a necessity, even for a middle-class clan with a well-off relative. Clara dabbed her eyes, murmuring about Maria’s grit; Freddie toasted the Trapp siblings’ antics with his teacup.
“This means, Liesl, that on Friday, you are going to be kidnapped and forcefully brought to our club in Soho,” Doris declared, grinning. “We want to see the worst of you. Drinks, cigarettes, and your worst dance moves.”
“Would you let me buy you all a round of drinks?” Liesl offered, her smile genuine. “It’s custom in Austria, to celebrate something. And I want to celebrate my new life here.”
“No one would ever say no to that!” Freddie whooped, and even Muriel, lingering nearby, chuckled.
Friday evening, Liesl stood outside the Blue Moon Lounge, a Soho basement tucked between a tobacconist and a shuttered tailor’s shop. The neon sign flickered, casting a glow on Doris’s sequined shawl, Clara’s nervous smile, and Freddie’s rakish grin. Muriel had declined. “Too old for smoke and noise,” she’d said—but sent them off with a warning to “behave, or at least lie well.” Liesl smoothed her tailored green dress, a touch less formal than her Vienna frocks, feeling a mix of nerves and thrill. In Salzburg, jazz nights meant cozy parlours or grand halls, rules clear even in rebellion. Here, the air felt looser, wilder.
Doris led the charge down sticky steps, the door swinging open to a blast of sound—a trumpet wailing “It Don’t Mean a Thing,” drums rattling like a pulse. The Blue Moon was a haze of amber light and smoke, tables jammed with laughing girls in cloche hats, clerks loosening ties, and a few foreigners nursing cocktails. The band—sax, piano, double bass—sweated under a low ceiling, their rhythm sharper than Salzburg’s smoother strains. Liesl’s heart leapt; it wasn’t Vienna’s polish or Salzburg’s intimacy, but something raw, alive, like London itself.
“Drinks first!” Freddie declared, steering them to a bar sticky with gin. Liesl, true to her word, ordered a round of sidecars—lemony, sharp, a nod to her siblings’ love for tart cocktails after ski trips. “To Liesl’s new life!” Doris toasted, clinking glasses. Clara sipped tentatively, coughing, while Freddie downed his in one, winking at a barmaid.
Doris asked immediately, “So, any differences between Soho and Austria?”
Liesl laughed. “Oh, dear! Most of Austria is a rather quiet, almost sleepy place. Although we young people are trying to change things, and sometimes succeed. But not even the capital, Vienna, could compete with London. Any part of it.”
Doris cackled, dragging Liesl toward the floor. “Show us ‘how you tried to change things’, then! None of your posh waltzes—Charleston or bust.” Liesl hesitated—she’d mastered the foxtrot in Vienna’s halls, but the Charleston was Louisa’s domain, all kicks and swagger. Still, the band’s beat hooked her, and she tried, arms flailing, knees high, giggling as Doris whooped approval.
“You’re a natural!” Doris lied, spinning her. Freddie cut in, his steps sloppy but earnest, muttering, “Don’t tell the office I stepped on your toes.” Clara, too shy to dance, sketched the band from their table, her pencil flying. Liesl caught her eye, waving, and Clara grinned back, a rare spark in her quiet face.
A slow number—Ellington’s “Mood Indigo”—shifted the mood, and Liesl paused, catching her breath. The melody stirred a memory: dancing with Emil on New Year’s Day, and then in his flat. She shook it off, focusing on Doris’s chatter about a new hat, Freddie’s awful joke about a lord’s wig. These people, she thought, were her new rhythm—kind, unpretentious, like Maria teaching her to see the world’s heart, not its titles.
“Another round?” Liesl asked, heading to the bar. The group cheered, and she paid with a smile, careful not to flash too many notes—her allowance as heiress was generous, but officially, she was “just” a secretary. Back at the table, Doris raised her glass. “To Liesl, who dances worse than Freddie but buys better drinks!”
“Oi!” Freddie protested, and Liesl laughed, louder than she had since Vienna’s lights dimmed. They spilled onto the street past midnight, sharing a paper cone of chips from a stall, the Soho fog wrapping them in its haze. Doris linked arms with her, singing a slurred “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” and Liesl joined in, her voice clear, her heart lighter.
“Your worst wasn’t so bad,” Clara whispered, clutching her sketchbook. “You fit here, Liesl.”
Liesl smiled, the city’s pulse under her feet. Salzburg’s jazz had been home, Vienna’s a stage—London’s, she decided, was freedom.
She started loving again.
She loved her job, loved going down the corridors lined with dark wood panelling, portraits of stern-faced peers, and the faint echo of footsteps on marble floors. Loved having her tea break with secretaries, librarians, and ushers. She had been introduced to two other members of the ‘gang’: Beatrice “Bea” Goodwin, and Leonard “Len” Marwood, two librarians, who were helpful presences when she needed to better understand British nuances, or to debate more serious topics. Bea slid her constantly new ideas for her reading material, such as a dog-eared Agatha Christie, whispering. Len hummed Bessie Smith while sorting treaties, and offered her a smudged map of Soho dives.
She loved going to the cinema, and enduring long debates about Greta Garbo versus Marlene Dietrich, earning envy for having seen the latter, and musing “What would we do if there were lords looking like Gary Cooper?”
Doris smirked, tossing her scarf. “Ricky—Lord Mattishall—has a touch of Cooper, don’t you think? All polish and cheek.”
Clara, nose in Woolf, disagreed. “More Yorkshire squire, tidied up. Ricky’s tame next to Henry—now he’s unreadable, like a bad novel.”
Liesl’s eyes widened, a laugh bubbling. “You call a lord Ricky?”
“Oh, love,” Doris said, “Ricky and Henry, our young Liberal lords, rattle the old duffers with their speeches—workers’ rights, women’s votes, the lot. They ditch titles off-duty, slumming with us clerks and their Oxford mates. You’ll call ’em Ricky and Henry, too, mark my words. They’re a hoot.”
That “hoot” arrived on an October Sunday at Hyde Park’s Speakers’ Corner, where the gang—Muriel and Tompkins included—brought her “to hear people debating socialism, Gandhi, or women’s rights.”
“Everyone in the family is a supporter of women’s rights,” Liesl said, chin up. “And Austria’s sliding rightward scares me. I might just climb a box and shout,” admitted Liesl.
The October air nipped Liesl’s cheeks as she stood at Speakers’ Corner, leaves crunching under her boots. Shouts of “Bread, not promises!” clashed with a preacher’s sermon, while a chestnut cart’s smoke curled through the crowd. Mama and Papa would love it here, she thought.
As she listened fascinated to someone praising Gandhi’s philosophy of non-violent resistance, and made mental notes to document herself more about him, she heard voices, and then everybody turned around.
“Oi, there you are!”
“Hey, Ricky!” Doris waved.
“Henry, you rogue!” Freddie grinned.
“You brought Ned! And Pip! And Simon!” Clara called.
One member of the group, an elegant, tall and striking figure who loomed like a storm in a tailored suit, tall and lean, his dark hair spilling over his brow like Friedrich’s or Kurt’s after a prank, said, “Well, you brought someone new, too!” His brown eyes glinted—mischief, yes, but something sharper, and his grin promised trouble, too.
“Easy, Haverstone,” another man shot back, shorter, his navy coat pristine, blue eyes sharp as a cinema star’s—Cooper, maybe, if Cooper smirked so. “Don’t scare her off.” His hair was tousled just so, features strong, every inch the lord who knew it. Was this Ricky? He stepped closer, smile softening. “Shall I play the cad, or will you lot introduce this lovely lady properly?”
Len offered himself. “Oh, the lady needs to see our proper British etiquette, my lord,” and mockingly bowed in a courtly manner. “Please, request an introduction, and I will be able to serve you!”
“Very well. Mr Marwood, I request the honour of an introduction to this lovely lady in front of me.”
“My dear Miss von Trapp, I would like to introduce to you Richard Swanton, 13th Earl of Mattishall. Lord Mattishall, this is Miss Elisabeth von Trapp, hailing from Salzburg, Austria, now guest of her nabob uncle.”
“Len, you’re hopeless at pomp,” he laughed, voice warm as a wireless crooner. “Ricky’s the name off-duty.” He kissed her hand, the perfect image of a lord if there was one—her scandalous lack of gloves aside. She briefly thought that Aunt Elsa would already be planning for a wedding: either for her, or one of her younger sisters.
“Everybody calls me Liesl, so please call me Liesl.”
The other elegant man cut in. “Liesl? A German version of Lizzy, I suppose?”
“You are right,” she answered.
Len started his introduction again, “And, Miss von Trapp, I would like to introduce to you Henry Haverstone, 12th Earl of Aldbury. Lord, lunatic, take your pick. Lord Aldbury… well, you know already.”
“Len, I had not asked you to introduce us yet!” He tried to be stern, but his eyes were gleaming, and he barely stifled a laugh. He then turned back to Liesl and extended his hand to kiss hers, as Ricky had already done. “You can call me Henry when off duty, but I am not sure if I will ever call you Liesl.” A beat. “No, no,” he said, kissing her hand with a theatrical bow, eyes locked on hers, wickedly bright. “You’re Elisabeth—regal, untamed, not some Lizzy tripping through Mayfair. Names betray us, don’t they?” His laugh was velvet, daring her to argue.
“What does that even mean?” Liesl giggled.
“Names should fit the person. It is one of my strongest beliefs.”
“Why do I suspect that you have a lot of beliefs? I’ve heard plenty—my father’s, my mother’s, even Gandhi’s today. Yours better be good.” Liesl teased him, and Henry’s
Len cut in. “We still have three gentlemen to introduce to you. Henry, you will have all the time to scare our Liesl off afterwards.”
The three, all former Oxford chums, came forward one by one.
“These—” He gestured to three men trailing behind. “Simon Hartley, scribbler for the papers, nosy as you please.” Simon flashed a grin, tie askew, notepad peeking out. “Edward ‘Ned’ Vaughan, dreaming of mad buildings.” Ned, lanky, clutched a sketchbook, nodding shyly. “And Philip ‘Pip’ Cresswell, poet, half-starved for verse.” Pip’s eyes burned, already rhyming Liesl’s name.
Ricky took over. “Alright, folks, enough chit-chat. What's on the agenda today? Unemployment solutions? Or is it still all about India?”
Bea filled in. “We were listening to a praise of non-violence. Especially Liesl wants to deepen her knowledge of all things India and Gandhi, as they are not so central in Austrian debates.”
Len added, “Liesl was pondering stepping on a box herself. She says Austria is drifting rightwards, and her family is rather worried.”
Ricky seemed very interested. “Really? Same as you with India, I’d say we British tend to focus on other matters than Austria. We do have our headaches with Hitler stirring up things in Germany, and even Mussolini is endangering the status quo we had so painfully established after the war. Maybe you could tell us more.”
Henry jumped in, grinning widely “So… now I see! You have planned all this—getting a job at the House of Lords, befriending people until you got hold of two lords—… you want to campaign to establish a British mandate for Austria to save the country from ruin! This is my occasion! Swanton, I trust you will not begrudge me this one!”
“Haverstone, I thought you hated waltzing,” was Ricky’s reply.
“Who knows, it might grow on me, especially in its homeland. Or I might take to climbing. Do you climb, Elisabeth?”
Liesl, who had been following the mock debate amused, was slightly took by surprise. “Oh… well, no rock climbing. We do hike a lot, as a family or with friends. My mother used to climb, but she gave it up before entering the Abbey…”
Clara interrupted her. “Oh, you should absolutely listen to Liesl’s story. Her family sounds like something from a novel.
Henry asked, “A novel? Frankenstein? Sense and Sensibility? Dracula? Ulysses? Lady Chatterley’s Lover? The Three Musketeers?” He trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Clara's bewildered expression.
Len whispered conspiratorially to Liesl, “See what we meant when we talked about scaring you and lunatics?”
But Liesl had taken it for the good joke that it was. “You’d be surprised to hear it, Henry, but then you will tell us all what you think. What genre of novel it could be.”
After listening for a while to some of the speakers, they all went to a tea room to hear Liesl tell her story once again—always with the implication that she came from middle-class and that her uncle was doing the family a favour.
Ricky was utterly fascinated. “I have never heard such a moving story. Romance, comedy, and history. And your own story, Liesl, is still to be written. Who knows what your life will bring now!”
Pip offered, “I am sure to compose a few poems about it, if you’ll allow me.”
“Only if you don’t rhyme ‘von Trapp’ with ‘mishap,’” Liesl said, raising an eyebrow.
The group laughed. Even Pip looked vaguely chastened.
Henry sighed loudly. “Gosh, you are all so predictable. Now, Elisabeth, your story is definitely unique, and—as for your question about what kind of novel your family’s story would be: definitely a category of its own. And I think you—all of you, or at least some of you—should write it.”
Liesl tilted her head. “All of us?”
“Yes,” Henry said. “It’s not just your story, or your father’s, or your mother’s, anymore, is it?”
Liesl suspected a trap. “What, no joke?”
Henry paused, his usual teasing smile fading. “I do not joke all the time.” Upon noticing Ricky’s mouth forming a word, he cut him off. “Swanton, if you laugh or say a word, I swear I'll petition Parliament to have your ancestral lands seized for a new aerodrome.”
“I’ll have all the champagne poured into the gutter before you march in.”
The easy banter reminded Liesl of her siblings' bickering, or Papa and Mama's affectionate and challenging teasing, and a wave of warmth washed over her
“Now, I think it’s time for a toast.” Ricky declared. “To Liesl. The Austrian invasion we didn’t know we needed.”
He raised his teacup mock-solemnly. “First Vienna, then London. Probably Oxford soon. We’re doomed.”
Everyone joined in. Even Henry, who clinked his cup against hers gently, eyes glinting with amusement.
“To Elisabeth. Our newest spy on the Continent.” She laughed.
As they spilled out onto the street again, bantering and jostling like old friends, Liesl glanced at the two young lords. Ricky was already chatting with Doris and Bea, animated and easy, while Henry walked beside her in silence for a moment, hands in his coat pockets, a secret smile playing at his lips.
“So,” he said at last, “about that British mandate for Austria…”
Liesl laughed again. She didn’t know yet what her future held. But in that moment—with the sharp wind, the smell of roasted chestnuts, and the mad, brilliant crew around her—it didn’t feel quite so uncertain.
She’d somehow become part of the scenery. The circle now included not just two earls, but their secretaries, a few brave librarians, and assorted Oxford hangers-on who had opinions about everything from Plato to pigeon-keeping. Between Speakers’ Corner, experimental plays, lots of jazz (and alcohol, and occasionally cigarettes), cinema, and endless tea, Liesl found herself absorbed—gently, irreversibly—into their world.
But that was in her spare time, mainly claimed by her ‘gang’ apart from a few perfunctory events with her uncle and aunt.
During the day, she shone at her job, especially when she was called for her language skills. Sometimes, an usher would bring her to a lord needing her help with foreign reports or correspondence. She felt a little unease at sitting alone in a lord’s study—maybe a consequence of reading the wrong novels, maybe her unconscious reminding her of her moments alone with Emil? Still, there was always a knock, a door ajar, the soft rustle of someone passing by. Even among titles and panelled walls, things remained firmly grounded in the ordinary. She was not the heroine of a scandalous romance. She was a working woman, and people were there to work.
As it was bound to happen, one day she was called to work in Ricky’s study—or better, Lord Mattishall’s.
As she entered, she curtseyed as she had learned to do, smiling politely. “Good morning, my lord.”
He looked at her curiously for an instant, almost stopping in his tracks, before returning her greeting and her curtsey with a bow. “Good morning, Miss von Trapp. Thank you for being here.” He had prepared his desk so that he would not sit directly in front of her, but slightly diagonally positioned, then gestured for her to sit.
He had been the perfect lord as usual, even offering to have some tea brought in as he went through all his correspondence in German, Italian, and French. He asked for her opinions about his own interpretations of the French, then asked for proper translations from German and Italian. There were reports on the internal mood in Germany, as well as on Mussolini’s latest war horrors in Cyrenaica. Something about Guglielmo Marconi’s new successes in radio transmission, and Hitler’s niece dying in a rather suspicious suicide.
He asked her for some of her opinions on Hitler, Mussolini, and about Austrian Kanzler Buresch’s ties to the Heimwehr. “This is all very interesting. Lord Aldbury and I really should try to bring these issues to the Lords, and to Parliament.”
When she was ready, she curtsied again, and he bowed, and that was all.
It was only a matter of time until she was called to Henry, too.
Once again, she entered and greeted him with a perfect curtsey and a perfect smile. Lord Aldbury reacted not much differently from his friend: stopping in his tracks, a curious stare, and then a bow. But he could not stay silent.
“Miss von Trapp, you bring us the elegance of the former court of Vienna, with such a perfect curtsey. I am honoured!”
Liesl simply smiled. He gallantly offered the same desk setting as his friend, and behaved rather similarly in the beginning. He had other reports about Cyrenaica and Germany that he wanted translated. He also asked her opinion soon after she had translated what he had requested, and listened as carefully as his friend had done.
“I spoke with Swanton already. Your insights are priceless. We, as British, often look away at what’s happening in a country, or even appreciate when someone promises to ‘stop communism’, only to start worrying again when this someone stirs up trouble near our colonies, such as Mussolini. If Germany and Austria are next… I don’t want to think about it.”
“My lord, If I may… even my father, who is a democratic monarchist like you, says that some people call ‘communism’ a fair wage, sustainable working hours, and human treatment.”
Lord Aldbury looked at her. “Yes, I am aware of that. And your father is right. And people run to real communists and fascists after they are denied just that.”
“I have heard from the others that you are a liberal master.”
“I am, although the definition of it varies a lot. But maybe one day you will visit my estate and Lord Mattishall’s, and you will form your own opinion. Obviously, anyone who will not confirm I am a liberal master will be drawn and quartered, as in the old good times.”
She forced herself not to laugh.
“Miss von Trapp, I give you leave to laugh. You might even add some other sign of appreciation, if you wish.”
She cackled as if she were with her siblings.
After that, he handed her some other correspondence as he called for tea. “I need you to check whether I understood correctly.”
Liesl looked at it.
It was an order for champagne and cognac.
“My lord, is this also pertinence of the House of Lords?”
“I think the quality of beverage is a rather serious matter, if that answers your question. Whether it is going to be shared with all of the House of Lords or only with those who deserve it… that is still to be seen. I need you to check it all. I would not want to receive some cheap sparkling wine and some firewater from Austria instead of the best French fare, you know.”
Liesl's lips twitched, fighting back a smile, but checked it nonetheless. As she was checking it, she added with mirth, “Firewater, or better, Schnaps, is probably too vile for you, but we do have some interesting sparkling wines, you know. Aunt Elsa and Uncle Max have an estate in a very renowned area, Wachau; they might send you some. And on our Italian side, we might send you some Prosecco di Valdobbiadene. You know, my English-Italian-Austrian side of the family.”
“Mh-hm. You have very interesting relatives.” He stared at her, torn between curiosity and mirth. “If I hadn’t heard that Austria can be very cold in winter, I would almost suggest we all visit you for New Year’s Eve.”
Another pile of correspondence concerned some artwork. Klimt.
Liesl suddenly saddened. The pain was not as acute as once, but still… that was a bitter reminder. She translated it all from German in silence.
He noticed her sombre expression. “You dislike Klimt?”
“Absolutely not.” She pressed her lips and continued typing.
She knew he was now staring at her. Trying to figure her out. Somehow, he managed the gist.
“Something unpleasant happened, and it has to do with Klimt. I can see it on your face. I am sorry, Miss von Trapp. I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault, my lord. And it’s beautiful art. You are only right to acquire some.”
He continued staring at her. “You left Vienna, you said. You fled Vienna because of… this something. I am really sorry. I even thought it would make you happy, to have some correspondence from home.”
“I said it’s not your fault, my lord. I mean it.”
“Should I have someone drawn and quartered in Vienna?”
At that, Liesl cackled, unexpectedly. “Oh, dear, now I have Kurt first in line, then Friedrich. Papa was forbidden by Mama, which means there is Uncle Max per proxy, and then you.”
“You just admitted to me more than you probably wanted to, Miss von Trapp. Also, I think that, as an Earl, I should take precedence over the others.”
“Uncle Max might find a Count or even a Prince to duel for him!”
“Your titles were abolished, Miss von Trapp. You are a republic, now!”
And with that, the mood was restored.
When she went away, she repeated her curtsey and he his bow.
He watched the door close behind her, his smile lingering a second too long. He hadn’t expected the laughter, nor the flicker of pain behind her eyes at the mention of Klimt. She was clearly more than the clever polyglot they’d borrowed from the secretarial pool. The curtsey. The land. The layers.
That evening, as they left together, he turned to Ricky and murmured, “Swanton, I think it’s time we properly introduced ourselves to Miss von Trapp. What do you say to a small ambush—in Mayfair?”
A few days later, as she exited the House of Lords, she saw the two Earls approaching her.
Lord Mattishall—Ricky— spoke, his formal elegant tone shining. “We realised we’ve been working you dreadfully hard, Miss von Trapp… and we are so curious about Austria, now that we hear about it more and more. Might we repay the debt with a cup of tea? We might stop at Fortnum & Mason, and then drive you home to Mayfair.”
She would never say no to tea and some company, although she felt strange that the two lords would invite her alone.
They sat in the elegant room and ordered, Ricky saying, “It’s on me,”, Henry almost comically pouting. They talked about everything and nothing: jazz, politics, supposed secret knowledge about Marlene Dietrich that Liesl might have gained in Berlin.
Then suddenly, Henry stirred his tea again, put down his teaspoon with a rather rehearsed gesture, and said the exact same words he had said to his friend. “I think’s time we were properly introduced, Elisabeth.”
Liesl was astonished. “I am afraid I am not following you.”
“Come on. Tailored dress, high-quality. Lots of them. In the beginning we thought, ‘maybe her uncle really wants to launch her into society’. Then your manners. It is very subtle, but a trained eye would notice. Your perfect curtsey when entering our studies? Believe me, no one even tries to curtsey. And your sprouting relatives with land and wine production? We could have ascribed your astonishing skills to you being very passionate and meticulous in your profession, but the rest?”
Oh, that.
She really had let too much slip, had she?
Well, there was no turning back.
She inhaled and exhaled loudly, and thought of Aunt Elsa, who would probably order her wedding gown saying ‘either the one or the other will do’. Then she stood up, repeated her curtsey, and announced, while sitting back:
“I am Elisabeth von Trapp, daughter of Georg, not only a pluri-decorated lieutenant commander of the former Imperial and Royal Navy, but also a Baron by virtue of his merit. His father was a knight. My birth mother was Agathe Whitehead. Her grandfather was the inventor of the torpedo; her mother was the daughter of an Austrian countess. We are tied to Austrian, German, and Italian aristocracy, as well as business owners in all of Europe. I work because in my rather progressive family, we prefer to keep busy and have purpose in life.”
Ricky simply said, “Welcome to London, Baroness von Trapp.”
“Oh, dear, only my mother goes by that title in high society! My father prefers being called Captain.”
Henry’s mirth was back. “So, you are one of us.” Then he was serious again. “But I think it’s commendable that you let the other think you are middle-class too, just with the odd rich uncle who loves you so much as the daughter of his dearly departed sister.”
“I just wanted to make friends. Not to be considered the quirky aristocrat looking for some excitement apart from waltzes and teas. Not seen as someone different—I am already Austrian; my mother being half English really does not count much.”
Henry looked at her curiously. She noticed that he had kindly not shared her reaction to Klimt: not that she thought he would surely gossip, but knowing that he was so ‘lunatic’, who knew whether he would not have used the information for a quip?
They finished their tea, and Ricky gestured for the bill. Liesl noted with some amusement that he truly did behave like a man who had never looked at a price tag in his life.
Liesl reached for her gloves as they stood, smoothing them with precise fingers. “Well then. Thank you for the tea, gentlemen. It was… enlightening.”
Ricky gave a mock bow. “An honour, Baroness.”
She gave him a look. “Don’t you start.”
Henry opened the door for her, stepping aside as she passed. “You’ve been hiding in plain sight all this time. Rather unfair of you.”
“Not hiding,” she said, pulling on her coat. “Just… waiting.”
“Then you’ll wait for us again Friday evening, before the real entertainment begins?” Ricky added. “We’ve received something quite grand in the post.”
She stopped in her tracks, suddenly amused. “You mean you RSVP’d?”
Ricky grinned. “Henry is even bringing a woman.”
Henry elbowed him. “I’m bringing my sister. She just got back from a European tour. A pity I didn’t think of planting her in a Prosecco estate and passing her off as my clever, middle-class cousin…”
Ricky shoved him with his shoulder. “Haverstone, rest your brain for a while—at least until we’ve brought Liesl home. And even later, if you don’t mind.”
“Only because it’s your car and your chauffeur, Swanton.”
The following day, Liesl sent two telegrams, as a quick substitute for the letters she was already writing to everyone. One for villa Trapp in Salzburg, and one for Elsa and Max in Vienna:
EVERYTHING SPLENDID STOP FIRST PARTY FRANKIES HOUSE FRIDAY NEXT STOP ALL FRIENDS COMING STOP TWO EARLS STOP WILL WRITE SOON STOP LOVE LIESL
Georg raised his eyebrows, Maria mocked him for that, and the rest of the family was happy for Liesl.
Elsa did start planning how to migrate a good chunk of Austria’s best to London for a wedding, and Max saw possibilities. In pounds.
It was the evening of Liesl’s first party in London. Aunt Eileen, in a silvery gown that shimmered like moonlight on the Thames, kissed Liesl’s cheek, her voice brandy over velvet. “Chin up, darling—your friends will adore it,” she whispered, a conspirator’s glint in her eye. Uncle Frankie, dapper in black tie, squeezed Liesl’s shoulder. With an airy wave, they vanished toward the music room, trailing French perfume and discreet privilege. They’d greet everyone politely, then slip off to one of their own parties—some duke’s salon, no doubt—leaving Liesl to her gang.
The Mayfair townhouse glowed, its Georgian bones dressed in silk wallpaper and crystal light. A gramophone spun Ellington’s “Mood Indigo,” Liesl’s pick, its sultry notes curling through the drawing room like Salzburg’s jazz nights with her siblings and friends. Her photos dotted a mahogany sideboard—Salzburg’s Alps, Istria’s waves—small anchors of home she called “family snaps” to present the family she had so often talked about. A buffet beckoned: smoked salmon sandwiches, devilled eggs, a Sacher torte nodding to Vienna, and a trifle wobbling under cream. Silver trays held sidecars, gin fizzes, claret, and lemonade, the barman shaking cocktails with a Soho flair Liesl loved.
She smoothed her emerald dress—Eileen’s choice, simpler than Vienna’s silks—and braced for the gang.
The doorbell chimed, and Liesl froze. Eileen’s idea—a receiving line, her, Frankie, and Liesl like some Regency ball—felt absurd for her untitled House of Lords mates, who had come all together to be able to face Liesl’s glamour. She stood between Uncle Frankie’s tailored ease and Eileen’s diamond gleam, heart thudding as the maid opened the door.
Slowly, the entire gang minus the Earls entered, introducing themselves and trying not to sound too impressed by the pomp. Obviously, they failed miserably, but both Frank and Eileen were rather good-humoured about it. Especially when their mansion was likened to Buckingham Palace.
Frankie and Eileen now waited for the main course of the evening: the arrival of the two young Liberal Earls, eager to later recount to their own circle the illustrious presences at the soirée of their perfectly eligible niece. Eileen had already mentally composed at least three anecdotes for the bridge table.
Ricky arrived first, with his look of a matinee idol mixed with a street poet; his smirk barely concealed beneath his boyish charm and the kind of coat that made other men look underdressed. His Gary Cooper eyes did not go unnoticed. Eileen was visibly charmed—her smile sharpening with the faintest flush.
Liesl, amused, turned to hide a laugh in her champagne glass. She could already hear it: “Why aren’t you already betrothed to him?”—a refrain that would unite Aunt Eileen and Aunt Elsa in an unholy transalpine alliance of meddling women.
Then came Henry.
He entered with Marianne on his arm, exuding his usual blend of understated elegance and irrepressible mischief. His hair, slightly dishevelled from the wind, flopped carelessly over his brow in a way that would have made a poet weep.
If Eileen had been flustered by Ricky, she was now practically glowing.
“An Irish rose beside an Austrian one,” Henry said, taking Eileen’s hand and bowing just enough to be gallant without seeming rehearsed. “And the proud protector of naval strategy in the Mediterranean, and of the vines of Prosecco. I know—I’ve memorised the family tree.”
Eileen let out a delighted little laugh, and Liesl caught Frankie watching her with an arched brow and the ghost of a scowl—whether from jealousy or pure theatricality, it was hard to tell.
“And this,” Henry continued, “is Marianne—my younger sister. She’s just back from a European tour, still in recovery from too much good food and too few decent pianists.”
Marianne smiled politely and gave a nod that was more graceful than shy. “They weren’t all bad,” she said quietly.
“And we do have another brother,” Henry added, “according to the law. We try to keep it quiet.”
Eileen laughed again and reached for Frankie’s arm. “We’re off, darlings. Behave—or don’t. But remember that there are other people in Mayfair.”
Before she left, she drew Liesl aside under the pretext of adjusting her necklace. Her whisper was a mixture of delight and pure gossip.
“You didn’t tell me the Earls were quite so easy on the eyes. Especially Lord Aldbury—he’s gorgeous. How are they both unmarried? Is Aldbury still too young? Or just too clever?”
She kissed Liesl’s cheek. “In any case, let them chase you. Never the other way round.”
Then she and Frankie vanished down the hall—he tossing one last amused look back, possibly at Eileen, possibly at Henry.
As the door shut behind them, the tension dissolved. Freddie whooped just as the gramophone needle dropped onto “West End Blues.”
“Now that’s a party!”
Liesl caught Henry’s eye across the room. He raised a brow, lips twitching in that half-smile of his, then gave the subtlest gesture toward Marianne. His sister was already deep in a conversation with Ned about Art Deco and Aunt Hede’s chaotic but magnetic aesthetic, the perfect context to pull her in.
But Henry wasn’t done for the evening. He cleared his throat with the theatricality of a man who liked a bit of stagecraft.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “let’s manage our record selection with cunning. Let even a few sentimental Austrian waltzes seep into the mix—I promise, they won’t kill the mood. Because soon…” He paused for effect. “I took the liberty of arranging a little something. A jazz ensemble will arrive later. Fresh from their earlier gig in Soho.”
Gasps and cheers followed. Liesl blinked. “I’m sorry… you did what?”
“I secured The Blue Ramblers,” he said casually. “They’re going to be quite the thing in a year or two, but tonight, they’ll be ours. I had a word with their manager, offered a bottle of cognac, —your delightful translation skills, Liesl; thank you—plus a few introductions and a gentlemanly IOU.”
Simon scoffed. “Typical. This is Henry in a nutshell. Offering favours left and right, then calling them in with uncanny timing. Or flashing that combination of charm and family name to get what he deems essential.”
“Oh,” Liesl said, half amused, half baffled.
Muriel leaned in, grinning. “No, Simon, give her the full story. Go on.”
Simon’s eyes twinkled with glee. “Well—two summers ago, Henry here decided to crash a royal golf outing. At Sunningdale, no less. Prince Edward himself was teeing off with friends. Henry didn’t care for golf, of course. What he wanted was face time to pitch the Prince on funding a jazz club in Soho. A Liberal cause, apparently. Half earnest, half lark.
“So, he bluffed his way past security with a forged telegram—‘from a cousin’—and marched onto the green in borrowed plus-fours. Interrupted Edward mid-putt with a bow and said, ‘Your Royal Highness, I’m Aldbury—here to save jazz and champagne, not your score.’”
The gang exploded in laughter.
“Edward, bless him, was amused enough to let Henry tag along. Henry nicked a motorised caddy cart—drove it straight into a bunker for laughs—then pitched his whole club idea over cigars. Edward didn’t fund it, obviously, but he sent Henry off with a handshake and a ‘Cheeky blighter!’ I was freelancing for a gossip column and heard it all from a caddy. Never let him forget it.”
Doris doubled over. “Henry, you absolute nutter!”
Clara giggled into her drink. Freddie raised his glass: “To bunkers and brass!”
Muriel grinned. Bea snorted. “I’d have paid to see Edward’s face.”
Even Liesl, usually so composed, burst into laughter. “My brothers would try something like that,” she said, eyes bright. “But not with a prince!”
“The man’s cracked,” Ricky said fondly. “But usefully cracked. I foresee great things once Edward becomes king,” he added. “Either we’ll make this country the finest it’s ever been—or we’ll run it gloriously into the ground.”
Henry raised his glass in mock solemnity. “As it should be. Greatness in either direction. Either a golden age—or a collapse so magnificent it’ll make Austria-Hungary look like a Strauss operetta compared to our Wagnerian finale.”
Liesl laughed again, though somewhere deep inside, that last metaphor echoed too familiarly. She calmed only when she surmised Henry was wont to exaggerate, and definitely didn’t mean it like others she would try not to think about.
Muriel leaned in and said gently to Liesl, “One thing to remember: Henry hates mediocrity. That’s why, at least, you know this band will be good.”
From that on, the evening flowed as any gathering of friends should. Marianne definitely did share some of her brother’s humour, but didn’t appreciate being in the spotlight, so she simply tagged along, at ease with her company, just blending in.
Liesl showed the gang the pictures she had brought with her. The ladies all swooned over her father and her brothers, as well as cooed over the baby photos of Anna and Florian. All admired the elegance and beauty of the entire family, from Pola to Salzburg.
Then there was the informal eating, and the equally informal dance, save for Ricky, who insisted on inviting the ladies instead of stealing them from their previous dance partner or occupation.
The gramophone was playing ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ in a rather fast piano execution, one of the Trapps’ favourites, and Liesl was showing her friends all the stupidest moves they had invented as a family on that tune, including her mother’s subversion of a waltz that made her father laugh like mad (and carry her up the stairs, later), when a trumpet blast suddenly shattered the party’s atmosphere and Mayfair’s quiet.
Everybody ran to the windows, and could see one of the most chaotic scenes ever to take place in Mayfair. A six-man jazz tornado spilled from what could only be a hired van and proceeded to invade the townhouse, their outfits bearing the signs of the evening already. Behind them, a motley crew: two barmaids in cheap sequins, a guy (later turned out to be a poet) clutching a gin bottle, three clerks still in work shirts, and a dubious ‘promoter’ in a loud check suit—stumbled along, half-dancing, half-lost. Someone was waving a Starling Café menu like a flag—apparently, the establishment the ensemble had been playing at. The smell of gin intensified, as did the clack of heels and soles on the floor.
The Whitehead staff, who had swung the door open after a few trumpet notes, tried to remain professional. Liesl caught the staff's glances—thin-lipped, wide-eyed, and very British. She knew what they meant. This was either the dawn of a golden age or a full-blown Wagnerian finale. She suspected the latter.
A Wagnerian finale for her, probably Uncle Frankie’s townhouse, and who knows what else. She would ask Bea if she’d accept a roommate. Well, at least with her she would fear no snarky wives appearing in the kitchen at tea time. (She appreciated that she had, for the first time, made a joke about her Emil debacle).
She had to admit, though: the band did sound good, and took its position in the large dining room quickly, after playing all the way. They did knock some of the family’s framed photos over, and Liesl hurried to save them from anyone spilling drinks on them. A few vases were knocked over, too. One didn’t break; the other did. Ricky was quick to intervene. “Liesl, I’ll cover the damage. And don’t worry—Henry will too. Or I’ll sell his cufflinks.”
But everyone was already mingling, laughing, dancing again. The barmaids giggled, one tossing confetti from a torn bill; Pip slurred verses about ‘Mayfair’s fall’; the clerks tried to foxtrot, tripping on silk rugs. Henry followed Pip’s inspiration.
“Elisabeth, this is Soho in Mayfair! Down with the old geezers; this is the future! Women’s rights, workers’ rights, the end of mediocrity and boredom, and our future King watching over the nation! I mean Prince Edward, of course, or David, if you want.”
“Henry, are you sure King George—you know, the current king?— would approve?”
“Well, I could ask him. I might ask for an audience in a few days.”
Ricky, knowing his friend was worried, and joined the conversation. “Henry! Come on. He would not listen to you anymore if one day there was something earnest and you asked for an audience again.”
“I am going to talk to him about the situation in Cyrenaica, and about my initiatives against unemployment, Swanton. I will just slip in a few remarks, to test the waters.”
Ricky rolled his eyes, then battled for Liesl’s company as a dance partner with Henry, agreeing then to exchanging her mid-song, as in a tennis match. Then they all moved on to other partners.
After a while, the band launched into a spirited ensemble version of ‘Tiger rag’, and everybody dropped everything (except drinks) to join the dance, and yell loudly “Hold that tiger!”. There were Charleston kicks, foxtrot spins, or just jumps. The trumpet was soaring, and the drums were keeping a galloping beat. It was a riot—albeit under strictly monarchist overview. Henry winked at Liesl from across the room, mouthing “It will all go well.”
The trumpeter started hollering, “Where’s that tiger?” to prompt the crowd’s answer; and Simon started chanting “Tiger!” People even made Ring Ring-o'Roses on the song’s tempo! Liesl had never, never imagined this sort of mayhem, and she thought of inviting Uncle Max as well as Friedrich, Louisa, maybe Connie, certainly Kurt and Brigitta, and have a repeat of this.
Then the crowd whooped as though Parliament had just voted to extend weekends. Ricky and Henry were among the loudest.
And just in that moment, a slick blond slipped in like a bar tab nobody remembered authorizing, plucking Len’s drink mid-gesture. “LAADIES… and, sadly, gentlemen, don’t you worry. Cecil Haverstone is here for you!”
Marianne and Henry exchanged a look of resigned understanding, and sighed. Cecil started kissing all the ladies sloppily on their cheeks, adding an affectionate remark for his sister.
“Cecil, you are late and loud, not to mention uninvited. Elisabeth, this is the brother we wished we could sell for champagne—or Prosecco. Cecil, this is Elisabeth, our new secretarial gem from Salzburg, Austria.”
“Hey, I don’t think everyone here was invited. I see several people who were at Starling’s. Luckily, not a single one I owe money to. And my lovely Elisabeth… if you ever wanted to try a lord’s brother…”
“Yes, THANK YOU, Cecil.” Henry had daggers in his eyes. “Here’s your gin fizz. Now move along. Talk to Marianne; you haven’t seen here in a while.”
“Yes, my lord,” and he bowed theatrically to go to flirt with the barmaids.
Liesl tried to see the bright side of it. “Come on, Henry. Drinking and flirting isn’t so bad.”
“True. It’s my having to pay or solve the consequences of his drinking, flirting that is bad. And let’s not forget the gambling.”
At that, Liesl agreed. “Oh… oh, I am sorry. I thought he was more like, well, a more extreme version of us, or of my siblings”.
“I wish!”
The evening proceeded as smoothly as could be expected for an impromptu jazz insurrection. But then came the unmistakable sound of the front door opening again—quiet this time, almost ominous—and the hush that fell across the staff signalled what was coming.
Uncle Frankie and Aunt Eileen stepped into their own townhouse, having returned from a dignified dinner party to find what looked like the aftermath of a very different sort of soirée.
Their dining room now housed a sweaty trumpet player sprawled over an ottoman, two barmaids fixing each other’s eyeliner, and a clerical type asleep beside a vase that no longer resembled its original form.
“Well,” said Frankie, surveying the scene with the practiced eye of a man who had once chaired a committee on post-war reconstruction. “Either we’ve adopted the Bloomsbury Group, or we’ve been colonized by Soho.”
Eileen lifted an eyebrow. “Did we change the butler’s day off without telling me?”
Before either could proceed to more scathing commentary, Ricky and Henry approached with hands raised in guilty surrender. Their voices were a perfectly synchronized apology duet—offering to pay for staff overtime, for the vases, the photo frames, and perhaps the entire motley crew’s taxi fare.
“We promise,” said Ricky solemnly, “that this level of debauchery is not typical. There was a mix-up with the café owner, and the jazz ensemble took it as a portable gig. We were merely trying to show Elisabeth a good time.”
“And help her network,” added Henry, which didn’t help.
Frankie paused. “Elisabeth looks unharmed. The house less so, but I’ve seen worse.” His tone was dry but not harsh. He glanced once more around the room and sighed. “Very well. But next time, perhaps warn us before the Revolution arrives.”
“Agreed,” said Eileen. “Though I do approve of the jazz. Provided no one touches my Wedgewood.”
Frankie pondered in silence his long bachelor era, the details of which he would never share with his wife, and nodded.
A few days later, Ricky and Henry met up as usual, discussing lords’ affairs as well as their repayment plan for the Whiteheads.
Ricky had a rather pensive look. Henry wanted to know why.
“I had no idea you’d find discussing vase patterns so deep, Swanton.”
“Well, if I’m getting myself a wife, I should start caring about these things. I hear they take vases and adornments quite seriously.”
Henry’s eyes shot wide open. “A WIFE? Swanton! You are giving up bachelorhood? Who is the unlucky lady?”
“Well, I hope she is not unlucky. She doesn’t look like it. And you know who she is, come on, Haverstone.”
Henry did not like it one bit. “Oh, Swanton, please…”
“It’s Liesl. Well, Miss Elisabeth von Trapp. Come on, Haverstone. She is perfect. Her lineage, her education, her capacity to switch from elegance to enjoyment of our more unconventional evenings. Not to mention her stunning beauty. I am not getting any younger, and if I don’t court her, someone will. Would you like someone like old Lord Winthorpe get his slimy hands on her? He has had a suspiciously steady amount of German correspondence, as of late.”
The problem was that Henry didn’t want anyone’s hands on Elisabeth. No one’s. Definitely no one’s. Not even Swanton’s. No, no, no. No hands on her!
He pictured himself swatting away imaginary, unidentified hands—Winthorpe’s, Swanton’s… oh, and David’s. Especially David’s. Edward’s. Whatever the Prince wanted to be called this week.
He would never tell anyone that.
But what he should tell was that he knew that Elisabeth had had something like her expectations disappointed, or her heart broken, somewhere in Vienna that had something to do with Klimt. He could not just blab; it had been a rather private moment. However, he felt like he could come up with something, so as to swat Swanton’s hand away from her, at least for a while, and to avoid him to pursue a woman who would probably turn him down because she was not ready.
It sounded like a respectable mix of altruism and selfishness.
What could he say? What could he say…
“Swanton, you are perfectly right. I will bribe a few ushers to deviate all that German correspondence somewhere else than Winthorpe’s study. But now, about Elisabeth: I most certainly understand your… pressure, and your appreciation. But… she has just come here. She is enjoying our gang and our lifestyle. She is getting to know us. Let her pass her first Twelve days of Christmas in England. Let her ease into our life before courting her.”
Ricky pondered his words. “You are sure you are not condemning me to see the perfect Lady Mattishall be snapped away by someone else?”
“Ricky,” he affectionately used his nickname, “you just discovered she’s an aristocrat—Austrian republic or not. Anyway, if I ever get that mandate, I’m reinstating the monarchy immediately, with Elisabeth’s father’s help. Back to us: give yourself time, give her time, so that she does not feel like a vase put out for sale—you know, one of those vases we are buying for the Whiteheads. So that she at least hopes you are courting her because you like her a bit, and not because she ticked all the requirements.”
“I do like her. Who doesn’t? I just happen to be also the right age to renounce bachelorhood.”
“Ricky, please, tell me you’ll wait a little bit. If she says no, because she suspects you are only asking because it is now widely known how eligible she is, you are done.”
Ricky took Henry’s seemingly disinterest advice to heart, and accepted to wait. Henry relaxed, and decided to take his own advice, for now, and see what the new year would bring.
The Advent saw the new, crazy London routine for Liesl. Her job, her life with the gang and with her uncle and aunt. Many letters from and to Austria—Mama was pregnant again, everyone was happy, and the baby was due during the summer; and Friedrich and Louisa would gladly visit her for New Year’s Eve, if it was possible. Kurt and Brigitta did not receive permission, but were counting the days until they could. In the meantime, they had picked up Papa’s passion for engineering, and were helping him design new sleds, new skis, new pens for the children, as well as learning some basic car maintenance. Martha and Gretl kept their roles as big sisters very seriously, and had taught Anna and Florian a lot of useful sentences, such as “I’d like more chocolate with my cake, please!”, “Let’s destroy the other team!”, and Maria’s absolute ‘favourite’, “When will the Rosary be over?”
Aunt Elsa was truly coming up with a plan for what she felt would be the inevitable glorious trip of the best part of Vienna to a lordly wedding. She said that, if Liesl did not marry one of the Earls, one of the other girls would, thanks to her convincing.
Christmas was a quiet affair, with Eileen and Liesl exchanging opinions on the different Christmas customs in Europe, and Frankie hoping the boredom of those days would be over soon.
The arrival of Friedrich and Louisa brightened up the household, with Frankie kidnapping Friedrich after dinner for some manly talk over brandy and cigars. But during the day, the three siblings opted for walks, tea with the rest of the gang, and of course, talks about pretty much everything.
Friedrich and Louisa bawled out loud at the recounting of the house party. “Oh, heavens” To think that we got punished for way less,” said Friedrich.
“Well, apparently, this time Liesl didn’t get completely drunk. It might have helped, you know.”
“I am rather sure that if I had emptied my stomach on Aunt Eileen’s carpet, you would be visiting me at Bea’s and not in Mayfair. But maybe you, Friedrich, would have been happier,” Liesl winked at her brother.
“Stop it!” Friedrich apparently liked intelligent women. Not that it was a surprise: with Mama and all those outspoken sisters…
Louisa asked, “But this affair on New Year’s Eve sounds quite different to me.”
“Oh, yes, it will be a civilised do, just the Haverstones, Ricky, and us. A gramophone, food and champagne, exchanging tales. Henry and Ricky are trying to convince Uncle they can manage ‘civilised’.”
And it was a civilised affair indeed. The Haverstones’ Mayfair townhouse shimmered—cut-glass chandeliers catch candlelight, a gramophone humming some Bessie Smith. The butler announced the trio as “Miss Elisabeth von Trapp, Mr Friedrich von Trapp, and Miss Louisa von Trapp—children of Captain and Baroness von Trapp, of Salzburg, Austria.” There were teasing bows and curtseys as they entered the huge sitting room, where the others were waiting for them. Champagne flutes were gleaming in the firelight; Cecil looked only slightly tipsy and mildly annoying; and Marianne visibly swooned over Friedrich. Liesl thought that Aunt Elsa should start thinking about marrying him off and sending him into seclusion in a country estate, and soon, or there would be a swooning epidemic among the female population which could stop crucial industries and activities, Parliament included.
Then it was time to start being themselves. “It’s so great to have a bit of the famous Trapp family here. The whole gang knows your story,” announced Ricky.
“Especially your mischief, from brawls to getting pissed and caught by your military father, from getting your then-governess a black eye to scratching your father’s new car,” added Henry.
Friedrich and Louisa glared at Liesl.
“Oh, don’t worry. Henry finds it all charming. He loves you already for that. He doesn’t like boredom and the ordinary,” filled in Liesl.
Ricky had brought some new records, Cab Calloway. Henry agreed the man would go places; soon, the gramophone hummed his new single, ‘Minnie the Moocher’ (definitely not the kind of record to play in front of the von Trapp parents).
They dined exchanging stories, and stopping Cecil from telling his. Then, it was time to dance their way into 1932. After midnight struck, the siblings forced everyone to exchange hugs and friendly kisses in original Trapp tradition; then started composing a collective letter to the family in Salzburg while still sipping champagne.
Marianne was interrogating Friedrich about his studies in Innsbruck; Ricky was fascinated by Louisa choosing Graz over Innsbruck and the proximity of her brother.
Louisa explained, “Both medical faculties have history, and also profit from solid hospitals for training. Both towns also profited from the war: the Italian-Austrian front wasn’t too far away; the wards had to be expanded, and the personnel to be trained to receive a constant inflow of wounded and traumatised from the front lines. However, Innsbruck has more of a solid reputation for practical medical education—we call it ‘clinical work’. Graz has been gaining international notice for innovative research in the last decades, which is what I am interested in.”
Cecil drunkenly remarked, “A pity. I would definitely offer myself as a patient.”
“Cecil, cut it off!” Henry was not friendly, but lordly. And not in the good way.
The group continued compiling a hilarious but respectable collective missive for the Trapps by exchanging ideas and anecdotes. Sometimes, someone went to pick up more brandy, more champagne, a sandwich, or to poke the fire.
As Cecil was pouring himself another cognac, Louisa went to poke the fire, a little tired of talking and writing as well as of sitting. No one thought much of it: Liesl and Friedrich knew she needed to stand up and walk a little every now and then; the others barely registered what was happening.
They did register a high, unlordly squeak coming from Cecil, though. They raised and turned their heads and saw Cecil standing a few inches from Louisa, next to the fireplace, holding his inner thigh; and Louisa, a rather evil grin on her face, and the fire poker still in her hand as if it were a sword.
“You should be glad I only branded your inner thigh. If you do that again, next time I will go higher. And be thankful: the inner thigh is more sensitive, I know, but it will be less noticeable.”
Friedrich and Henry asked in unison: “Do that again WHAT?”
“This idiot,” and Louisa waved her fire poker, pointing it at him, “thought my bending to stir and poke the fire was an unspoken offer for him to stir and poke other things. Now he knows better; I have branded him for life.”
Friedrich was already marching towards Cecil to beat him, sure to find the support of the Earls, but Liesl stayed him. Henry coolly remarked, “Louisa, I think I might offer you a reward, and even lobby for you to be decorated for services rendered to my Earldom. You might have saved me hundreds of pounds. Less money to cover up his trail of damage, more money for my people.”
Marianne chastised her brother, too. “Apart from the obvious scandalous behaviour you keep showing everywhere you go… what part of ‘Louisa picked up spiders and snakes for tricks’ and ‘Louisa offers her assistance in any kind of revenge to her siblings’ told you it would be a good idea to put her hands on her? I swear Henry should lock you up in the dungeon.”
Louisa smirked like a queen of evil. “You still have a dungeon, hey?”
“Care to apply for a position as a torturer? I can only imagine how your experience with vile creatures—meaning spiders and snakes— and your studies could make you the perfect instrument of order and justice.” Henry’s eyes were full of mirth, but his tone was rather convinced.
Liesl challenged him. “You know, I am curious to visit your ancestral house. I am rather sure no ‘liberal’ master would ever propose to reopen a dungeon. Those poor people…”
Ricky supported her. “Henry likes to tell stories where he is the hero, you know that. But it is our duty to check their truthfulness!”
“Thank you, Swanton. I’ll send you the bill for this evening!”
As everyone except Cecil laughed, Liesl thought about how different this New Year’s Day had been from her previous. And about how she would never again choose the romantic one over this absurd, irreverent party.
Although… those flutes and chandeliers in the fire did convey their own romantic touch. Maybe there was romance even in the most expected places.
Notes:
The plot point of Liesl's pregnancy scare is inspired by my own real-life experience, highlighting how stress can affect the body. It also reflects the lack of at-home testing options in that era.
Elsa's speech on love, passion, and memories is a reflection of personal wisdom gained over the years, and a key theme for Liesl's emotional journey in this chapter.
The chaotic jazz band scene at the party is a stylistic homage to the mayhem of the party of 'National Lampoon's Animal House’.
Chapter 21: Stardust (1932)
Summary:
Liesl starts 1932 in London and finds herself navigating surviving traditions and customs straight out of a Jane Austen novel, all while considering Freud’s ideas and trying to master British social etiquette in her own unique way.
Georg and Maria face some spirited competition for the title of most romantic (and humorous) couple, but they rise to the challenge with their usual gusto. Baby Karoline arrives.
Meanwhile, the ripple effects of the Wall Street Crash have hit Austria hard, following the collapse of the Creditanstalt bank. The situation is desperate, especially in Salzburg, where only Governor Rehrl's direct intervention saves the Festival. The Trapps leverage their privilege to counteract the crisis, finding new allies in their quest to alleviate suffering and prevent the country from taking a sharp right turn. Some of their efforts are unorthodox, but they all help put food on the table for several families.
Georg, Maria, Liesl, and Henry venture to Wörgl-a Tyrolean town where the Mayor has introduced demurrage currency to combat the crisis-to witness its workings firsthand and show their support. The visit turns out to be as memorable as the event in September and Elsa's latest conquest.
Notes:
Guest starring the then HRH Prince of Wales (future Edward VIII/Duke of Windsor), and his brother the Duke of Kent. Honourable mention to Wörgl’s mayor, Michael Unterguggenberger (all historical characters).
Genres: comedy, romance, satire, historical.
Contains yet another two homages to Pride and Prejudice and Jane Austen in general (often cheek-in-tongue, but she would have loved it).
Another long chapter: take your time reading it (16,890 words).
The Austrian football team from 1931-1933 was famously known as the "wonder team".
A reminder about some original characters introduced in the last chapter:
Henry Haverstone, 12th Earl of Aldbury, his sister Marianne, and his brother Cecil.
Richard Swanton, 13th Earl of Mattishall.Title from a 1932 jazz hit by Hoagy Carmichael.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Liesl had no idea what this year would bring, apart from Friedrich’s twentieth birthday—a huge jazz party in Soho with the gang and Louisa before the return of the siblings to Austria, with Henry orchestrating his usual shenanigans—, her presents to both Friedrich and Louisa, her visit to Salzburg as soon as the new Trapp was born and Mama felt human again.
Liesl also didn’t care what the year could bring. She had her job; she had the Whiteheads’ trust; she had the gang; she had letters from Austria. That was all she needed. Aunt Elsa had once said, “Who cares; you are a beautiful heiress.” Oh, yes, she was! A beautiful heiress with a job, soon to be nine siblings, and not a care in the world.
Although, politically speaking, she sometimes thought that a British mandate in Austria could be what she wished for in life, and not just a running joke between her and Henry. She feared that a new right-wing coup attempt in her country could succeed; and what would happen to her family, then?
Richard Swanton, Earl of Mattishall, knew perfectly well what this year would bring. His perfect countess, who would warm his life and his ancestral home. He knew the easy friendship between them was far more than many couples in his milieu could ever aspire to. He knew that his blue eyes could bewitch many ladies, and that he was definitely not hard to look upon. He only needed to court her, and the rest would come.
To avoid another one of Haverstone’s lunatic speeches, he waited until the end of January; then, he surmised that his friend’s continuous jumping from one task to another, from one absurd situation to the other must have made him forget whatever it was that made him worry so much about Liesl’s perception of a courtship.
Besides, the tall, dark, handsome young man must have enough women lined up to last him for the eight years that separated them in age. He hid them well, apparently, since no one ever caught him. He sometimes wondered if he fished in the same pond as the Prince of Wales. That would be clever of him: hide in the shadow of the bigger fish.
Anyway, it was no concern of him. Not anymore, at least.
Come February, and having the certainty that Liesl enjoyed his friendship as much as anyone else’s, he put on his best suit and marched to the Whiteheads’ townhouse with a bunch of flowers and his best charming smile, to ask to see Elisabeth.
He had timed his arrival perfectly: not too early to catch the family at breakfast, not too late to risk seeming disorganised. Quarter past four. The golden hour of social calls, according to that book he'd skimmed at Mattishall Hall—Etiquette and Influence for the Modern Peer. Published in 1896.
He had definitely impressed Eileen, and worried Liesl, who thought someone must have died at first for him to appear like that at the townhouse, flowers in hand.
“Ricky, could we just walk a little, maybe go to a tea room?” Liesl had no idea why Ricky had “called on her”, or—better yet—she preferred to play dumb. After all, if she had gotten the hints right, she would now experience an Austenesque courtship, or a current reenactment of it. She wasn’t sure whether this was a huge practical joke orchestrated by Henry: she could definitely see him pop out and yell “It was all a JOKE!”, maybe even with the infamous Edward (or David, or His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, or whatever Henry decided to call him this week) adding to the fun.
She sat with Ricky in an elegant tea room in Belgravia, where he proceeded to ask her all about her hikes, her school in Salzburg, her holidays in Istria. Liesl even feared she would hear Darcy’s infamous “What think you of books?” At least, she would have had the possibility to talk about Jane Austen. Or to slap him with her edition of Northanger Abbey.
Well, the outing hadn’t been particularly good, but it hadn’t been bad. And there had been no impromptu proposal, so… another outing was lined up.
Ricky rented out a museum, the Wallace Collection, at great cost. Everyone knew Liesl loved art but had recently “been caught up in other interests”, so Ricky had thought it would be a great move. He assumed that Liesl would swoon over the sight of 18th-century porcelain and ancestral portraits.
The problem was that he narrated everything himself in a terrible imitation of a tour guide, misidentifying half the items.
“Ah yes,” Ricky had said, pointing at a Rococo commode with the confidence of a man about to humiliate himself, “this was Louis XVI’s, or rather, his mistress’s. You know—Madame de Pompadour. Or was it du Barry? Anyway, splendid carving.”
Another time, it was a carriage ride through Hyde Park. It was a full Regency fantasy, after all: white horses, a fur-lined rug, taking his arm to keep warm. And there had been several mild and sunny days in that February. Just not the day they went for their ride in a carriage. The horses panicked; the coachman insisted on the scenic route via Shepherd’s Bush; Ricky’s hair got flattened in the rain and it did not exactly help his mood. Liesl ended up pushing the carriage to help, which felt less like a romantic stroll through English shrubbery and more like trying to jump-start her father’s Steyr with her siblings.
After that, Liesl begged him to keep to more traditional outings. She should have worded her request in a different way, because she ended up going with him to a soirée… at the Duke of Kent’s!
She finally saw the infamous Prince of Wales (and the Prince definitely saw her). She admitted that the man was gorgeous, but she also smelled danger. Or maybe it was just her brain conjuring all the gossip she had heard and cleverly suggesting caution.
Thanks to Aunt Elsa’s lesson, she fit in perfectly. But it was definitely not an experience that could offer either romance or amusement. She briefly considered letting the Prince follow her to a secluded corner and be her Wickham (or Willoughby?) for the evening —for the sake of dramatic balance, if nothing else… just to avoid being there with a Ricky who did not resemble his true self; just to flee boredom.
She finally took charge of this courtship, and demanded a simple dinner with jazz music and dance. She could not say she was swept over her feet, but at least Ricky had recovered his equilibrium and remembered how to be a man in 1932, not a footman in 1811. He even talked about his friendship with Henry.
“It was rather natural. As he inherited, in 1927, we were among the younger ones, both Liberals. We soon discovered we shared the same interests in living life as young people and not as stuffy relics of the past. Also, both Oxford, you know. We started befriending other people, and that’s how the ‘gang’ came to be. Sometimes, someone marries and disappears. That’s life.”
“And are you and Henry liberal masters?”
“We both certainly care that our infrastructures work, that our people don’t suffer. I think Henry’s more… outrageous approach to life makes him more open to, well, find ways to solve problems that aren’t orthodox. This means not just handing out favours and then calling them in, or using his family name and charm. This also means talking to the royals or to other politicians in a way no one would dare. He once claimed he would found ‘monarchist communism’, or something like that, if the country would not react to the collapse of your Austrian Creditanstalt. You should ask him. Sometimes he is way too clever for us to follow what he says. We’re all just counting the days until he bursts into Buckingham Palace with a plan and no appointment.”
Liesl remembered a few of their conversations—at the House of Lords, or outside. Yes, he would do that. “I think he is also working on improving infrastructures, as to offer more work. My parents are trying the same.”
“Yes, he does that. But he must be very careful. His father left the books in order, and Henry definitely tries to keep his coffers full; but we had our bankrupt gentlemen and lords already after the war, and there’s bound to be more of them.”
“Well, he is talking a lot to Uncle Frankie about their technology. Although he should actually talk to Papa. He is the engineer in the family. By the way, even uncle Robert is now getting married… to a rich English woman willing to live with him in Italy. The world is small, isn’t it?”
Luckily, there was just a normal evening, with some dancing, and definitely a few stares from Ricky that were a little more than friendly, but nothing went beyond a hand kiss.
A few days later, she invited Henry to talk and tell him all about Ricky’s quite ‘peculiar’ courtship, since she was still sure it was all a huge prank.
They met for tea, and she did not leave out anything: neither Ricky’s museum monologue, nor the panicked horses, nor the dangerously charming Prince. “Henry, it must be one of your pranks! I live in fear that he reenacts something extreme, like a duel, one of these days!”
Henry was laughing loudly, folded on himself, to the disapproval of all other guests. He nearly spilled his drink and upturned the table.
Liesl just raised an eyebrow. “You’re not denying it, then?”
“Denying what, my dear?”
“Exactly.” And with that, she reached for another biscuit, as if the campaign were only just beginning.
Henry forced himself to sober up. “Anyway… I should not talk ill of a friend, but… bringing you in the presence of the Prince of Wales? I would not let you within a mile of him! What was he thinking? I am glad it was, apparently, a rather formal do.”
“I guess you talk from experience?”
Henry was hurt by the assumption. “I talk because the Prince’s indiscriminate appreciation of beautiful women is not a secret. He does not keep it a secret either. I do find him amusing: he can be a nice chap, and he is also the future king, but I wouldn’t want you to think I share his… lifestyle.”
“Oh. I am sorry, Henry. I mean, not that it would be any business of mine. I wouldn’t even know how Ricky is under this point of view. You men enjoy all this freedom… it’s almost expected of you…”
Henry tried to hide his disappointment. “Liesl… are you considering accepting Ricky’s inevitable marriage proposal?”
“Oh… ‘considering’ is the wrong word. I have been thinking about what it would mean, what it would entail. Apart from the possibility of a prank of yours, of course. I am just… pondering.”
“Have you ever been asked for your hand in marriage before?”
Liesl’s sadness surfaced, but it was not the desperation of last year. Just a mere acknowledgement of how she had fared so far (not well, she admitted.) “You might not believe it, but I have been asked twice. Well, once properly. The second one… was a little bit confused.”
“What happened?”
“The first one was a National Socialist who had seen in me the perfect Aryan mother for his children, and even talked to Hitler about his dreams of raising a dozen of children for the Third Reich with me.”
“Is that a joke?”
“No.”
“Oh, Elisabeth, I am so sorry!”
“Don’t be. I was young, but luckily his ideology made him speak to my parents, and speak he did. He told it aaaaall. They sent him away, and justly so.”
“And the second one?”
Liesl hesitated. How could she explain Emil? “Well, he had forgotten to divorce his wife, and his wife was particularly fond of not signing the divorce papers. Turns out, polygamy is still not allowed.” She stared into nothing. There was definitely some humour in it, but Emil was still the man she had really given her everything to. And it had led to heartbreak and humiliation.
Henry was astonished. “And now you get Ricky and his botched attempts at romance. What have you done to deserve all this? Did you cruelly refuse to kiss some poor boy in school? Before the Nazi fellow, I mean?”
Liesl giggled. “No, no…it just… happened. But this is also why I am rather focused on understanding it all… motives behind people. I know your motive is always entertainment, or outrage, or some progressive advancement.”
Henry’s eyebrows shot upwards. “That’s all you see in me? A jester, and a liberal master and lord?”
“It makes for an interesting friend, Henry. I think that’s why everyone likes you.”
Henry felt rather defeated. Although, it was true. The entire gang was based on friendship, and their friendship worked well just like that.
And so, he did what a friend could do.
“Well, if you are asking what Ricky’s motives are… I mean, I am not in his head, and I cannot know if he has fallen in love with you recently or not. But Ricky is… you know… he will court you, then he will ask for your hand. All very proper. He will marry you, and stop seeing his ‘female friendships’, if you know what I mean and if I don’t scandalise you. He will be faithful; you will give him heirs and the best years of your life, on his arm at events, or at his ancestral seat as a wife and mother. Then, one day, you might wake up and find out you are bored with each other. Maybe he will get back to his ‘female friendships’, maybe not. That is one respectable life, but it lacks a lot.”
Liesl was rather impressed by Henry’s speech. “What does it lack, in your opinion?”
“A shared project. What to do with your life together. And love, passion, you name it. Or at least something that does not reek of mediocrity, of boredom.”
Henry? Talking about love and passion?
She hadn’t expected that. Not from Henry. He was supposed to be all clever quips and strange causes, not this... conviction.
She looked briefly at the floor, then lifted her gaze again and found him watching her. He looked rather spirited. And upset. He was upset by something.
“Yes, it lacks everything.” She could not say more than that.
“I hope this means… that you are not going to marry him just because you got your heart broken in Vienna—I suppose that would be the one who had forgotten to divorce— and now a life of boredom seems like the better option than being crushed again?”
Liesl sighed. “I am not going to marry anyone soon. I am trying to get to know people. In general, and the gang in particular. To understand their motives, as I said.” She paused a second. “I thought I knew you all already… but then, I would never have thought that Ricky would court me like that.” Another pause, to gather her courage. “And I never would have thought to have this kind of conversation with you.” Liesl knew she was blushing. Especially because, as Aunt Eileen had said, Henry —whom she had even suspected to be interested in something other than women—was a handsome young man, and the very indirect compliment she had paid him had made his expression light up.
Henry smiled, pursing his lips. “Elisabeth, take your time. My greatest stunts always take time, you know.”
Liesl’s greatest lesson was that people were rather intricated. Some people sprinkled their speech with hints, and some more versed people might pick those hints up. It hadn’t been her fault with Rolf: she had no idea about politics at the time. She might have noticed Emil’s careful formulations: ‘moving forward’, him inviting her to live with him before marriage, his rule of ‘never where your circle might see us’… it wasn’t enough to understand it all, but it would definitely raise her suspicions if it happened again.
Ricky’s proper approach to courting was rather consistent with Henry’s explanation. Was it the truth? Would she understand it?
Henry… she had always liked Henry, very much. His jokes, his stunts, the discussions with him. But he had always seemed so… in a world of his own. She had always seen him as a court jester of sorts— amusing, clever, a bit mad, and she had given some consideration to her aunt’s suspicion that he might be possibly not interested in women at all. It wouldn’t do to fall for a man who could never marry her, after all…
Liesl decided she needed to meet someone else and ask them what they thought the secret would be. Bea and Pip, of course.
“You are the most intellectually gifted of the gang. Would you say there a method to interpret people’s words and actions that lets you understand who they really are, and what their methods are?
Bea sipped her tea, then answered. “Words repeat, Liesl. ‘Duty’ thrice, they’re chained, like lords’ votes.” Liesl nodded. Rolf’s obsessions. She should have seen it. “And silences—‘love’ skipped, trouble brews,” Bea added. Emil hadn’t said “Let’s get married” that February, when he should have said it again after their earlier talk of marriage. But she had worked out that much without Bea.
It made sense.
Pip twirled his pen—“Pauses, Liesl—doubt hides there, like verse off-beat.”
Liesl frowned at Pip’s cryptic remark, but smiled anyway. That was Pip. Besides, couldn’t pauses be good too? To think and ponder before giving an answer? But maybe she should just pay more attention to how pauses were used? Maybe that was what Pip was trying to say.
Liesl groaned. “I’ll never crack it!”
Bea grinned. “Do you need to crack it? Take life as it comes.
Pip leaped. “Or rhyme ‘em—suitors snooze!”
“I don’t have a poet’s calling, Pip!”
“You could always start! Rhymes come by themselves, after a while.”
But the mood was broken, and it all turned into a farce. As it probably should be. Or not?
She went to a few other dinners with Ricky. She was sure there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He was a dear man, and a dear friend. But that was all. And he really, really wanted to marry her.
He proposed one day at the beginning of April, marking her third marriage proposal: a tidy yet wearying number. He took her hand, kissed it, and said the right words, with the right music in the background. He even looked besotted enough, and maybe he partly was. They were friends, and she knew she was beautiful: she knew that it was enough for many men to be smitten.
“Ricky,” she began, “you are a dear friend, and it was… interesting to get to know you better, really. I wanted to see where this courting would bring us, you know. But… when I think of marrying someone… I cannot just marry you because you are a dear friend with beautiful eyes and you asked me properly, nicely. That’s not the life I envision for me.”
She saw the disappointment in his eyes. “What do you envision, Elisabeth?”
She did not hesitate. “Love. Passion.”
“And don’t you think they might grow as we are together? Elisabeth, I cannot… you know I cannot properly touch you if you are not mine. But believe me when I say that many things would change if we were husband and wife.”
Liesl felt sorry for him. She almost laughed at the irony of him speaking of touching her as if she were some unspoiled treasure. But there was nothing untouched in her, and yet that changed nothing.
“Ricky, I think it’s all more complicated than that. And you are a dear friend, really. Would you want us to turn friendship into a slow-burning disappointment?”
Ricky obviously came up with an idea that she might have seen coming from her home in Salzburg.
“Elisabeth… would you mind walking with me a little bit? I am getting the check.”
She knew what he would ask, what he would do.
“May I kiss you?”
He wasn’t even a bad kisser—she had kissed both Rolf and Emil, enough to make a comparison—but… there was nothing there. Especially because such a passionate kiss should make her feel something. And yet…
“Ricky, I think we should go back to being friends, in the gang. Please.”
He sighed. ‘As you wish,’ he said—not like in the stories, but like someone lazy closing a drawer after being asked.
As you wish? Talk about surprising reactions and answers.
Ricky missed a few outings at first, but eventually returned. She couldn’t quite tell if anything had changed. Maybe he was a little more distant, and relied more on the gang than on being her friend.
She would definitely feel very sorry if he distanced himself from the gang, or if he distanced himself from her as a friend. But her impression was that it was just a little bit of hurt pride, maybe the fear of mockery from Henry.
But Henry, who turned out to be more than the jester she’d pegged him as, never even mentioned what she knew he knew.
The closest he came to the topic was a jab at Lord Winthorpe and his intense interest for German correspondence of a few months prior. “I told you, Swanton, that I would bribe a few ushers to redirect that correspondence anywhere but to Winthorpe’s study.” He turned to her. “You see, Winthorpe was very interested in you, and since he cannot do things like, I don’t know, secure a jazz ensemble for your party, he thought he would make you fall in love with him by having you constantly translate from German. The perfect plan, of course. I know you would have married him. Alas, that correspondence has been used to light the fires. We wouldn’t want Winthorpe’s romantic heart to freeze. Terrible timing for a sentimental frostbite.”
Swanton, surprisingly, praised his friend. “Another one of Haverstone’s great successes. Good job.”
There was no sarcasm in Ricky’s tone, though Liesl caught a faint flicker of something—respect, maybe. Or regret. A little hint of bitterness there, she was sure.
Doris, Freddie, and Tompkins were then interested in gossiping about old Winthorpe, and sidetracked the discussion; however, Liesl had a curiosity, and she dared to ask Henry if he would walk with her home.
“Ah, finally our plans for the British mandate of Austria!” He offered her his arm.
“You know, I have told my father. As another progressive monarchist, he will definitely come out of military retirement to support your Mandate! You do have many things in common, you know?”
Henry scoffed at that, and Liesl did not understand why.
Liesl continued. “So… I wanted to ask you something. You just made a joke, of course… but in the spirit of getting to know people… do you think securing a jazz ensemble by calling in favours and bringing it to a party is something that might make someone fall in love?” There, she had said it.
Henry pursed his lips. “If it makes someone fall in love… I don’t know. But if the question you really wanted to ask was… if the person who does it wants someone to fall in love with him because of it… the answer is that doing this kind of things is something I like to do, something I want to do. Something I will always do. People fall in love more because of how they react to this kind of things. Whether they laugh, or enjoy the evening; whether they cherish the memory of the evening.”
Liesl blushed, and smiled. “I can see what you mean.”
Henry smiled too. “Royal Ascot, then? In one of your nation’s most beguiling national costumes? Preferably one that causes a diplomatic incident.”
“That would mean we would crash it, somehow, right?”
“I see you already ask the right questions.”
“Well, it would get you removed from the place in style. Your dream, was it?”
The most surprising thing to come out of his mouth, though, was his parting quip. Or invitation. Actually, his parting words managed to be both at the same time.
“I’ve decided my sister shall be struck by a sudden horticultural generosity. We’re opening Haverstone Hall’s gardens this week, didn’t you know? She’ll need charming Austrians to liven up the shrubbery. Check your post for a missive from Marianne!”
And to Hertfordshire she went.
In a car driven by Henry himself, with Marianne as official hostess and chaperone, leaving Cecil in London to get on someone else’s nerves. No fateful meetings—only intention.
She was treated to a tour of the house by the housekeeper, and had to stifle a laugh. Would the woman be like Mrs Reynolds in Pride and Prejudice? Or like Frau Schmidt at home? Or something else entirely?
The woman was certainly kind, and showed her all the public rooms, including the paintings and—by now—even a few photos.
There was a very nice portrait of Henry, but the smile on it revealed nothing Liesl didn’t already know. He was a man capable of mischief, of mirth, of simple joy and enjoyment. That smile wasn’t something he reserved just for her—he smiled often. And rightly so.
The housekeeper spoke warmly of the previous Earl, praising how he had preserved the estate through the rough tides that had sunk so many other peers.
“But the current master,” she added, “he really goes the extra mile, in these difficult times. He’s always studying new ways to finance works on the land, to keep the coffers full, to give hope to the people.”
Liesl couldn’t resist. “Would you say the current Earl is a fair and liberal master?”
“He most certainly is. But then, everyone knows it. His political affiliation is no secret, miss.”
“Would you say he’s good-natured?”
The housekeeper raised an eyebrow. “He is definitely good-hearted, miss. But he can be a little eccentric in the way he behaves. Or talks.”
“And would you say the tenants and servants give him a good name?”
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes slightly, curious why the young lady was asking so many questions when she clearly knew the Earl.
“People are usually happy to work on the estate. Conditions are fair, and the estate prospers. The master has kind words for everyone… unless they truly don’t deserve them.”
“Let me guess: in those cases, he jests about it.”
The housekeeper chuckled. “So, you do know the master!”
She was starting to think the miss was a peculiar one.
She found Henry in his study, seated at his desk with several thick volumes on currency and estate finance.
She leaned in the doorway. “Would I compromise you, my lord, by entering all by myself?”
“I’ll have Marianne challenge you to a duel. Since you’re not your sister Louisa, she might actually have a chance.”
He leaned back, threading his fingers together.
“Speaking of challenges,” she said, walking in and sitting with perfect posture in the chair opposite him, “I tried to test whether housekeepers and liberal masters are truly as novels describe—specifically, Pride and Prejudice…”
“Oh no,” he groaned. “What a cliché!”
“Cliché? Not at all. Your housekeeper was neither a Mrs Reynolds nor her opposite. And your portrait didn’t unlock any secret revelations. I already knew you were handsome and smiling—oops.”
Henry grinned. “Ah, Elisabeth. You always reveal more of yourself than you mean to. And you just subverted another cliché by praising my loveliness.”
Liesl flushed from head to toe. “To be honest, I never really noticed you that way until recently. But you do have a perfect nose, you know.”
“Heavens, we’re destroying romantic conventions one by one. At this rate, I’ll be the one marching down the aisle in a white dress and veil.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “Why do I feel like you’re not even joking this time?”
“Probably because you’ve heard my idea of Royal Ascot in… what do you call your traditional costumes?”
“Tracht. Plural, Trachten. Well, mine would be a Dirndl.”
“Well, I could always tell the priest he’s wearing a gown, too.”
She looked around, still trying to calm her blush. “So, is this the part where the rival arrives and acts jealous, à la Caroline Bingley? Or will Cecil be our Wickham and drag you back to London to cover up a scandal?”
“You can’t imagine how realistic that second scenario is.”
She laughed. “Well, at least he knows to keep away from my sisters. He has a reminder just below the place where he needs one.”
“Miss von Trapp, that was a rather scandalous thing to say.”
His grin widened, and in that moment, she noticed it—his smile was different when he looked at her. And she wondered: did she have her own smile, just for him?
“With your desk between us, we can’t even kiss scandalously,” she murmured.
“That’s where you’re mistaken, Elisabeth.”
He stood, crossed the room, knelt beside her, pulled her gently into his arms, and kissed her. Passionately. Lovingly. And she kissed him back.
Later—somehow on the floor now, tangled together in a quiet, sunlit heap against the desk—he said softly, “I know I’ve never told you how beautiful you are. But you know that, don’t you? That wouldn’t be the most original thing to say.”
She shook her head. “But I imagine you’ll say it when we’re escorted out of Ascot because I insisted on wearing a tight-fitting Dirndl and on having you wear an equally tight-fitting Lederhose.”
“I look forward to it.”
They spent the rest of the weekend at Haverstone Hall. Walks through the countryside, mornings with too much tea, evenings with too many thoughts. And poor Marianne trying to look like the laziest chaperone ever, not to mention the most miserable.
Liesl had to return to London for a session at the House of Lords, but neither seemed in a rush to define what was unfolding between them.
“You know,” Henry said, as they strolled down a path flanked by wild hedgerows, “we don’t have to say any words. Not yet.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Which words?”
“Oh, you know. Those words. And the other ones that usually follow, and that usher in great preparations and chaos.”
“You mean I love you?” she said in a deadpan voice, as if discussing budget amendments.
He stopped walking. “Yes, those. I prefer to reserve them for when we’ve had at least one major disagreement and a romantic dinner.”
“So… around Tuesday, then?”
“Thursday,” he corrected. “Tuesday, we’ll be annoyed with each other and pretend we’re not. By Thursday, we’ll have talked about it. Maybe cried. Then wine.”
She laughed. “You’re a terrifying combination of strategist and romantic.”
“Better than being a romantic strategist,” he replied, “which is just a man who falls in love with anyone who argues with him convincingly.”
She gave him a look. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is when you’re in politics.”
Their return to London after the weekend at Haverstone Hall was quiet, but content. He had sent her home in the Bentley with a knowing smile and a kiss to the back of her gloved hand, and said nothing of the words that hung in the air but hadn't yet been said.
A few evenings later, Henry invited her to dinner—not a public affair, but a discreet private room at Claridge’s: no interruptions, no whispers of scandal. Just her, the city glimmering through the windows, and the quiet confidence of two people who were learning one another without hurry.
She wore green silk, the kind that caught the light with every breath she took, and he couldn’t help but think of spring returning to a particularly stubborn winter.
At some point, as the second course was being cleared and a well-behaved claret was breathing between them, he raised a brow. “Elisabeth, another thing. I understand your father is a great man, but… please stop saying men have something in common with him.”
She tilted her head, amused. “Oh? So, you read Freud?”
“In English. I’m waiting for you to read me the German edition, of course.”
“With commentary?”
“Only if you whisper it. And pause dramatically before the oedipal parts.”
She smirked into her wineglass. “Then I shall skip most of the book.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Silence stretched companionably between them. Outside, London hummed. Inside, the hush was intimate.
Then, quieter:
“Elisabeth… how would life with you be?” he asked, suddenly serious. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
She didn’t answer at first. She folded her napkin, carefully, then looked at him across the flickering candlelight. Something in her chest gave a little start—not panic, but a pulse of vulnerability. What if she said the wrong thing? What if he meant something more… or less? But he was still looking at her with that steady gaze, the kind that asked questions with weight. “Lively,” she said. “Loud, sometimes. Political. Intercontinental. Irritating, too. I am human. What else… Sports, music, romance, passion, some glamour definitely come into it. Oh, and I will want to be a part of your… schemes, you know.” As she spoke, his eyes didn’t leave hers. He smiled at political, chuckled at intercontinental, and when she reached romance and passion, he exhaled softly, as if she’d just read his hopes aloud. When she was finished, she sipped a little bit of wine, looking at him. “And how would life with you be?”
“Lively. loud, often. Political—my degree, my seat. Intercontinental, as long as we chase good taste and hidden gems. Irritating… but mostly for the others. Unless you mean Cecil: he will irritate us, too. I want you to be part of my schemes. I like sports and music, and I definitely want romance and passion with you. I am glamour embodied. But seriously, please know that there is much to do for King and country, as Earl and Countess. And I want to do it all together, Elisabeth. Friends, partners, lovers.”
She almost cried. “I know you told me not to mention my father… but… that’s what my Mama and Papa said to each other. And they are living by it. And I really, really want that.”
He looked at her then not as a lover or a partner, but as someone he’d been looking for without knowing it. Something unspoken passed between them, louder than a proposal.
“See? This is the moment where I ruin it all by saying ‘you were trained to manage an estate; you will be perfect’. He jested, but he was visibly trying not to burst his emotions and hiding behind his jest. “You know, there's a monologue forming in my chest and I’m resisting it with all the nobility of my line.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand over his. “I know. Not yet.”
He turned her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Thursday,” he said softly. “We’ll argue by Tuesday. And Thursday… you’ll tell me you’ve loved me for weeks.”
“You’re presuming much.”
“I am an earl. Presumption is passed down with the coronet.”
She laughed, and the last of the tension melted from her posture.
He was walking her home, on Tuesday.
She asked, “So, what should we argue about? Colour patterns for our Trachten? What party to crash next?”
“Oh, I have a splendid one. You see, I have decided that… I want our first years of marriage to be dedicated to us. To get to know each other, to learn to work together for the Crown and the Earldom, and to enjoy life as a married couple—alone or with friends. No children for at least two or three years. There has been a lot of medical progress on this side. We can manage it.”
Liesl thought about what he said. Learning together, enjoying life together. She found herself agreeing with him.
“You will have to search longer for a source of arguments. Do you have a forgotten wife, somewhere?”
“No, and you know all about my political ambitions.”
“If this continues, we will fall into the cliché of arguing just before the wedding.”
“As long as you will marry me, Elisabeth, because I really am in love with you. Have been for a while.”
“I will marry you, Henry, because I fell in love with you, but don’t ask me when. I have no idea. I always liked you, you know.”
“You don’t know when you fell in love with me? Now I have something to argue about!” And he kissed her as if there was nothing else than them. For a heartbeat, the world stilled. No gaslights, no pavement underfoot, no London fog. Just the warmth of his mouth against hers, the scent of claret and silk and rain. She leaned into him, into the kiss, into the future she suddenly saw so clearly.
“I suppose I should tell them formally. But then again, you're twenty-two. Who cares? We could simply dispatch the invites and inform them—ever so graciously—that their attendance is expected.” Henry didn’t dread telling the Whiteheads—they were perfectly reasonable people. He simply thought it an unfortunate waste of perfectly good mental energy that could otherwise be spent on architecture, Freud, or planning a more extravagant honeymoon.
“Well, we should probably pick a date first.”
“Darling, it’s already May. We shall marry on the eighteenth of September—a most civilised compromise between the horror of rushing and the agony of waiting. You know, my housekeepers might not be that well disposed towards me if we got married in a few weeks. Also, we will have time to visit Austria around August, as you had planned. Poor Marianne’s last daunting chaperoning duty. Well, at least she will see your brother again…”
“Brothers, Henry. She will not regret seeing my beautiful country and my equally beautiful brothers. And baby Florian? An absolute angel with cheeks like dumplings.”
The Whiteheads were smart members of society, and knew something was in the air. They also had prepared mentally for a long queue of suitors for Liesl, so it hadn’t been too surprising when the first Earl had somehow disappeared, and the second one had come forward.
Liesl was an open book to most people, so they knew the second Earl would probably be the winner.
They had the confirmation when the lucky Earl came to dinner, in all of his Savile Row splendour and with a wide grin. “Mr Whitehead, I’m afraid I must deprive you of one Austrian rose. Elisabeth and I are madly in love, thoroughly engaged, and shall be wed—with considerable pomp—on the eighteenth of September. But fret not: this happily creates space for another of your radiant nieces to shine on this side of the Channel. Louisa has set a precedent, after all.”
The Whiteheads were obviously puzzled by his meaning, but they concentrated on the most important part of his speech. Frankie felt moved by the idea of Agathe’s first child marrying and becoming Lady Aldbury.
“Frank, are you going to cry?” His wife could not believe her eyes!
“Agathe would have been so happy!”
Henry was now before a huge intellectual challenge. “Elisabeth, quick academic query: is this a cliché—or a delicious subversion? Your uncle weeping in lieu of the first Baroness von Trapp?”
“I guess we will have to argue over it at dinner. But first things first. Telegram to Salzburg and Vienna!”
Two telegrams were sent, to villa Trapp in Salzburg and to Elsa’s townhouse in Vienna. Again. The idea of calling had been scrapped because of the many difficulties they would face. The telegrams recited:
ENGAGED TO HENRY HAVERSTONE EARL ALDBURY STOP OVERJOYED STOP WEDDING PLANS DEVELOPING STOP 18 SEPTEMBER STOP WILL WRITE DETAILS SOON STOP LOVE LIESL
Georg and Maria, after fighting against the clear signs of a heart attack, didn’t know whether to be overjoyed, too, or worried, or both. The otherwise aseismic Salzburg was soon rattled by a familial tremor, epicentre: Aigen. Phones rang, doors slammed, children were retrieved from rooms and lawns, and the house reverberated with cries of “She’s marrying which lord?” as soon as the rest of the family heard the news, and as they scrambled for the phone to inform Friedrich and Louisa, then both Connies and Gromi.
In Vienna, Elsa swooned most theatrically into Max’s arms the moment “Earl of Aldbury” was uttered—fully embracing yet another time-honoured cliché. Max was forced to be even more cliché, fanning her and giving her some apricot Schnaps from their estate in the Wachau—yes, Schnaps, not cognac. Well, what Henry didn’t know…
“You know I will tell everyone that you fainted, darling?”
“You know we will not have time to talk about it? We are preparing a wedding at a lord’s estate, Max!”
Last but not least, Henry invited the gang at his townhouse, which was already an event by itself, and the young couple announced the great news.
Ricky gave Henry a subtle nod—a ceremonial ubi maior, minor cessat, as if to say: “You win, my friend. Well played.” The gang erupted into cheers and chaos, and a few dance moves, of course.
Freddie was the only one with something to complain about. “I owe two quid to Ned.”
Clara scolded him. “I told you, but did you listen? Nooo!”
Doris asked, “Wait, who proposed to whom?”
Liesl admitted, “We’re arguing about that on Wednesday.”
The preparations began swiftly. It was decided that they would marry in Aldbury and host Liesl’s considerably large family at the ancestral home. There was much to do, and Liesl would soon be forced to resign from her position at the House of Lords, as she prepared to become Lady Aldbury. She didn’t want to leave abruptly, though: her work was appreciated, and partially crucial, considering the looming shadows of the crisis on the Continent.
One day, though, Liesl asked Henry to visit her at the Whiteheads’ townhouse. She had long thought about it, thought about what Aunt Elsa had told her… and she had decided that honesty was crucial between them. Whatever the consequences.
She had asked Aunt Eileen to trust her and to let them sit together in a room, alone, door closed, because she needed to discuss important details.
Henry arrived and noticed immediately that she was rather agitated, and nervous. She was standing, pacing, fidgeting. A tea tray stood untouched, though Liesl poured it in ritual. He knew instantly something was coming.
He sat on a chair backwards, leaning with his arms on the back of the chair, gazing at her curiously. “I am all ears. Don’t tell me you understood when you fell in love with me, though. That would be rather disappointing.”
She sighed, and hoped for the best. “You see, there is something I should have told you sooner.” She brushed her skirt while speaking, although there was nothing more to smooth.
Henry listened carefully, recognising the seriousness of her tone.
This could be it. The part where I lose him. But if he cannot take the truth, I cannot build a life on its absence. She resumed, her voice faltering. “I… I… well… I am not a virgin!”
Henry didn’t budge. “I see. Were you forced?” That was sweet of him.
“No.”
“So, you weren’t hurt.”
“Only my heart, in the end. You know, the art professor who had forgotten to divorce.”
“So, apart from a broken heart, no damage done.”
“That’s it.”
“How terrible,” he said drily. “We will spend our wedding night simply enjoying each other in every way we wish to, instead of worrying about your virginity. What a disappointment, really!”
“You… you really don’t care?”
“I said what I said, Elisabeth. I want you. I want you as you are. And knowing that there is one fewer thing to worry about is definitely a plus for me. Can’t you imagine being free to explore each other without fear?”
A sob escaped her before she could stop it. “Oh, Henry… thank you…. Thank you!” And she burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.
He stood up immediately, went to her and took her in his arms, squeezing her to him, her head on his shoulder. She breathed in his scent and his cologne as he started speaking, “Darling, thank you for what? For being a man in love with his woman?”
“I am rather sure that many…”
“Yes, many men would get mad at you, I know. They would also think telling you that you are a beautiful woman and the perfect wife is courting you, and so on. I am different, you know, and you love me for this.”
Which reminded her of something. “Speaking of which… you don’t have hidden mistresses I will learn of later? Or something…”
“No mistresses, Elisabeth. I had my dalliances with a few women, all affairs where both parts knew where they stood, what they were in for, and where there was mutual respect. But I haven’t had one in quite some time. That’s all there is to know about me. The only surprise left is whether I will come to the altar in my tails or in a white dress, believe me. Oh, and what I will do to you on our wedding night. Or what you will do to me on our wedding night.”
“I think it will be a rather interesting night,” she laughed between tears.
“Madam, for it to be really interesting, you should lend me your suspender belt!”
Henry suddenly remembered that there was one thing from Elisabeth’s past that truly bothered him. Truly made him jealous.
She had gone with Ricky to one of the Duke of Kent’s dos, and even met the Prince of Wales. That meant he now had to offer a similar experience, if not even a better one; which would also offer the perfect occasion to present his enchanting fiancée to other peers and royals. Not to mention, a wonderful educational occasion for Elisabeth to learn how to become her partner in crime.
Therefore, one afternoon, he went to pick her up,—chauffeur, sartorial splendour and all. She was finishing her last touches—already more Lady Aldbury than young Baroness von Trapp, and telling him the entire Emil story, as he had requested. She had dearly wanted to finally laugh about it with him.
“Elisabeth, I have to say… falling in love with your art professor who chooses you over the scheming and insincere rivals, then the cafés, kisses and stares over art… so cliché! It’s horrible, really! At least, your ending sounds like the perfect Austrian operetta meets Wagner on a good mood day. And Louisa is right: you should have slapped them both, to add that Italian touch.” Henry’s deadpan delivery cracked up Liesl.
Liesl snorted in a very unlikely manner, her laughter unstoppable. “Oh, heavens! Since the evening of my party, I have wanted to laugh about the absurdity of it all with someone! You know, I thought that if my uncle had thrown me out, I would have moved in with Bea. And I suddenly thought, ‘at least I am not going to find snarky wives in her kitchen when I go to make tea!’ A thought, this, which makes me feel bad for the Duke of Kent, who is going to find a few surprise guests…”
“Darling, no one would ever feel bad for the Duke of Kent. And he will be grateful to have such an exquisite guest at his charity event. Besides, announcing our betrothal is our duty, and we don’t have time to host an engagement party. It’s all very reasonable, if you think of it.”
This time, there would be no forging and no calling in favours. Just a strategy, charm, and possibly Lord Pelham, one of Kent’s aides, another Liberal and a nice chap.
Technically, Henry and Liesl were very much not on the official guest list for the Duke of Kent’s private charity garden party in Richmond. It had something to do with a late RSVP. Or rather, Henry forgetting to RSVP at all. Engagement stress and all. It happened to the best of men, too, after all.
“Don’t worry,” he told her, straightening his tie as they stood just outside the gates. “We’ll charm our way in. Besides, Kent owes me a favour. Or at least a glass of champagne. And Wales owes me a jazz club.”
They entered arm-in-arm, cutting through the murmur of conversation and polished silver trays. Liesl smiled graciously. Henry nodded as if inspecting his ancestral orchards.
Liesl recognised several of the presences from the other event she had been at. Among them, the Prince of Wales—very amused, and marching straight toward them.
“Aldbury, nice to see you again! I had no idea you were on the list for today. My lady, a pleasure to see you again as well.”
“Your Royal Highness, always a pleasure. I have regrettably forgotten to RSVP, since I have been very occupied with this enchanting lady here, but Pelham luckily remembered that we were invited.”
“Your enchanting lady was with Mattishall last time. Stole her away from him, did you? Shameless.”
“Actually, it’s Mattishall that borrowed her from me. Wales, I hereby re-introduce to you Miss Elisabeth von Trapp, daughter of Captain and Baroness von Trapp, from Salzburg, Austria… and the future Lady Aldbury! 18 September is the happy day.”
The prince patted Henry on his back with a loud clap, then leaned in conspiratorially. “So. You stole her from Mattishall, ‘forgot to RSVP’ to Kent, and now plan to marry in September without inviting me?”
“I was merely trying to spare you a country wedding. Endless speeches, too many flowers, uncles everywhere. Oh, and a suspicious abundance of Irish aunts, too.”
“Nonsense! I adore weddings. Especially ones that cause minor diplomatic earthquakes. Besides, you owe me.”
“For what?”
“For this. Not tossing you out right now, for starters. And the jazz club. You promised.”
Liesl, ever diplomatic, cut in. “We would be honoured if you attended, Your Royal Highness.”
The Prince gave Liesl a wink. “And does your family produce many more of these heartbreakers, Miss von Trapp? I feel I must warn my friends. Who knows, an Austrian bride might become all the rage.”
Liesl laughed. “Six sisters, Your Highness. From four to nineteen. All lovely. And mostly terrifying.”
Wales turned to Henry. “I expect good food, wine, dancing, and at least one sister who can waltz without standing on my feet.”
Henry bowed slightly, a glint in his eye. “Then I suppose I must warn Louisa. And bring extra champagne.”
It wasn’t long before someone official—the Duke’s secretary, a Mr. Sedgewick who looked like he had never smiled in his life—approached, wearing a grim expression, as though someone had spilled Earl Grey on the Magna Carta.
“Lord Aldbury. Miss von Trapp. Might I ask…?”
“We’ve brought a donation,” Liesl said brightly, handing him an envelope with a carefully calculated figure inside. Enough to allow everyone to save face.
Mr. Sedgewick blinked, nodded, and melted back into the hedges.
“Well played,” Henry murmured.
Later, the Duke himself found them while ambling among rhododendrons and retired colonels. He raised an eyebrow.
“Aldbury.”
“Your Grace.”
“You weren’t on the list.”
“Not on the list, perhaps. But always part of the flavour.”
The Duke chuckled despite himself. “Remind me who your lady is. I remember her from one of my private events, albeit on Mattishall’s arm.”
Henry repeated the introduction, and added, “also, the future Lady Aldbury. I thought it essential for the Crown to be informed of such a development.”
“Congratulations! May this alliance signal peace… or at least fewer duels over heiresses.”
Henry refrained from mentioning that her father had sunk several of their vessels during the war—and had been decorated and made a Baron for it. Best to keep that little detail for the wedding toast.
It was only mandatory that Liesl resign from her job, now that even the Royal Family knew of her betrothal, which meant the entire House of Lords was now trying very hard not to gossip about her and Henry. Rumours said that old Lord Winthorpe almost started an inquiry about what had been really going on in Aldbury’s office, according to his fantasy. A well-rehearsed fantasy of his, of course.
A resignation letter, a few handshakes and hugs, and then the reassurance that at least the gang would still meet (as much as possible under the strain of planning her wedding), and that Elisabeth von Trapp would continue to serve the House and the Crown, just under a different guise: as Lady Aldbury. And it was over.
And so, with the weight of politics, duty, and resignation behind her, Liesl could finally turn her thoughts to something far simpler—and far more precious: home.
They were planning, living life like young people; then suddenly, July was there—and with it, a telegram informing them that Karoline von Trapp had been born on 2 July 1932, and that Mama was all right.
“It’s probably for the best that we’ve decided not to have children right away—imagine our children having uncles and aunts younger than them. Mama is your age, and, well, she and my father are very much in love…”
“Stranger things have happened, my dear. As your family says, as long as we love each other, who cares?” Serious Henry always surprised her with his depth.
And at the end of July, Liesl would finally see her family again, and meet baby Karoline. And, of course, introduce her illustrious fiancé to the family. Uncle Robert and his new English wife would come directly to the wedding, and so would Aunt Hede; Elsa, Max, Aunt Constance and cousin Connie would be at the villa instead.
But even amidst the joy of reunion, a shadow lingered over the villa: the world beyond was crumbling. Her mother and father had described in their numerous letters how the ripple effect of the collapse of the Creditanstalt had led to a credit crunch, business failures, and increased financial instability; how unemployment was skyrocketing; how the family was happy to have diversified their sources of income, but also felt increasingly guilty of their privilege when looking at the signs on closed businesses, or at the queues of unemployed people or before soup kitchens.
Maria and Georg had resorted to offering non-resident jobs to as many people as possible. Between the children and the estate, it was possible for them to find small tasks to relieve at least in part a few families. Georg was happy to be a consultant in his role as naval engineer: he felt like it would be an important buffer, should any of their income sources be swallowed by the crisis, or by a nationalisation under the guise of either fascism or communism somewhere.
Maria, Brigitta, Martha, and Gretl had often helped in several charities, even despite the political differences with both Christian-Social and Pan-German circles, just to feel like they could alleviate the suffering of the population. Maria had soon left it all to the girls, as her pregnancy progressed. Friedrich and Louisa had been instructed to slip a few Schillings to those they thought they needed them, or to find some way to help charities, too.
Georg sometimes felt restless. His retirement from monarchist activism due to irreconcilable differences a few years prior had left him rather isolated, and he could only support his dear, wonderful women in their actions. Maria always reminded him that he was being an incredible husband, father, and provider to a large family as well as to his niece Connie, and that was already much.
The situation was so dire that the Governor of the Land Salzburg, Franz Rehrl, had to undergo considerable efforts so that the Festival could be held. He hoped that the event could bring some relief, even if only temporary.
Max was relieved the Governor had salvaged the Festival, even though the signs were dire. He planned on having artists’ parties all around the town, to patronise more businesses and to help employ more people, at least for a month.
He knew Elsa and he had also investments and land; but he knew their life would still change a lot if things didn’t improve. Worst case scenario, he would be a prisoner of Vienna’s salons, only drinking what their land could produce and listening to endless chatter instead of organising shows and events. They were not going to starve, but they would forget power, shine and partying. Unless something was going to change soon, of course.
All this Henry reported to the House of Lords and to all peers and royals he could meet (which meant, a lot), always with the help of Liesl. The situation had to be monitored.
Also, Henry prepared for their journey carefully. Cash—pounds, Schillings, dollars, German Marks. Enough to help, or to bribe their way out of trouble. Cheques. A few humbler choices for their clothing—all three of them—, in case they wanted to be less ostentatious. He left the valet behind—he wanted to travel not as the Earl, but simply as a young man with his fiancée and sister, ready to embrace a new family. He also briefly considered bringing a pistol, but then he knew his new father had one, his new mother too (courtesy of her increasingly worrying husband), and there would be too much paperwork anyway.
Therefore, he and Marianne were blissfully free to worry only about the reception in Salzburg. Most of the family spoke very good English; but it was bound to be a little more complicated with some. Liesl said they would all manage, and that she would translate any time it was necessary.
One afternoon, they finally stood at Salzburg central station, where Hans awaited them to drive them to Salzburg.
Henry and Marianne were positively impressed by how Elisabeth had hugged even the gardener. There was now a proper chauffeur, a non-resident man her father had hired to help another family, but for Liesl’s return, Georg had sent the man who had known his girl since childhood.
And then the Steyr pulled up in front of the villa, and everybody felt their hearts beat madly.
The noise of the doors slamming had alerted the ones who were in the garden, hoping that Salzburg’s flighty weather would assist them and not douse them.
The first who reached the newly arrived was Anna, who ran like mad towards Liesl, yelling “Liesl! Liesl is back!” Anna was then picked up (with considerable effort, since the four-year-old was already tall) by her sister and covered in kisses. “My little princess, I missed you so much!”
“I missed you too, Liesl!”
A wave of tenderness washed over Henry. “Hallo! You are Anna, aren’t you?” he said in German, smiling tenderly at the girl, Liesl’s brush-up lessons fresh in his mind.
“Servus, Henry! How are you?” replied the girl.
Still basking in the sweetness of the moment, Henry didn’t notice the second ambush: another Trapp wrapped tightly around his legs. So, he now had a toddler strapped to his trousers, yelling “Servus, Henny!”
He picked up the boy, warming Liesl’s heart as he had hers, and kissed the boy, saying with a lot of effort, “Ser-voos, Florian! How are you?”
Another four Trapps arrived running. Kurt, Brigitta, Martha, and Gretl, who were playing with the two little children. “Hey, you!” was the word, and there were more hugs, and kisses, and attempts at communicating in both English and German. Kurt gallantly included Marianne in the conversation. Marianne was definitely not offended: she had found the two little children endearing, and was now presented with another dashing Trapp man. Was the entire family blessed by looks?
Then Friedrich and Louisa appeared, greeted the trio, introduced their cousin Connie—who answered in perfect Irish English—and invited them all to the terrace on the back after the last hugs. “Come on, Henry, time for your trial in front of the Trapp court. Liesl’s defence won’t count. Marianne, did you prepare your brother’s defence?”
Marianne stumbled over her words. “Yes… well… I suppose.”
Friedrich and Louisa took Anna and Florian from the couple. Then, they let them walk in front of the jury.
Georg and Maria were sitting next to each other, a crib behind them in the shadows, and stood up immediately, as nervous as the couple, going towards them.
Henry decided to take over. Remembering Elisabeth’s “Don’t talk too quickly!”, he slowly enunciated his greeting.
“Good afternoon, my dear new Papa and Mama! So nice to meet you! Incredibly enchanting neighbourhood, if I may,” and stretched his hand towards Maria, who was rather amused by the young man’s choice of words and let him kiss her hand. “Enchanted,” he added.
Georg looked momentarily stunned—his daughter hadn’t introduced the young man, and now here he was, calling him ‘Papa.’ Then he caught the glint of mischief in Liesl’s eyes and Maria’s amusement, and relaxed just a little. He offered his hand for a handshake, and once again the young man preceded him. “From a fellow constitutional monarchist to a fellow constitutional monarchist. Elisabeth told me all about it,” he said, before adding with a mock-weary glance at Liesl, “repeatedly.”
Finally, a chuckling Liesl added her own two cents, slowly talking in German. “Well, this is Henry Haverstone, love of my life and bane of those who expect rehearsed or standard conversation. Soon to be my husband, your son-in-law, and —for those in the back—your nephew. And this” she turned towards a completely dazed Marianne “is his sister, Marianne.”
Maria suggested hugging the two newcomers, daring to speak in English, and Henry immediately hugged in original Trapp style his “Mama” and his astonished “Papa”, whereas Marianne was a little more restrained. Then it was time to hug Liesl—a long, affectionate hug, and many kisses and “I missed you”.
“Darling—you are more than glowing. And your fiancé seems like a very nice man,” said Maria.
“You didn’t exaggerate when you wrote that he is… eccentric. Anyway, how is my girl?” said Georg.
“Georg, haven’t you seen how they both look happy?” Maria elbowed her dear husband.
Liesl then moved them to the table, where the presents all stood up. Aunt Constance welcomed Henry in the same perfect Irish English as her daughter. Henry didn’t miss the opportunity. “Finally, the other Irish aunt. My safety net, should a dinner ever degenerate in quick Austrian German arguing. Or worse, dialect.”
Constance laughed. “I have been through that. You’ll manage.” Then she greeted Marianne, a little less dazed now.
Henry switched to French. “You must be Elsa and Max.”
Elsa was fanning herself, and Max was taking notes of all the things he would torture her with later. Henry kissed her hand too, with Max strategically positioned behind her, then shook hands with Max himself. “So, Uncle Max, how bad is it? How many members of the former Viennese court is she trying to sneak into the wedding? How many dresses have been bought? At least, you might feed a few more families with your contribution.”
And with that, the ice was broken.
Liesl was then led to baby Karoline, who was the first Maria-baby with her Mama’s hair, blonde, and picked her up delicately. “Hello, and welcome! I am your oldest sister, Elisabeth! I promise I will visit you regularly, even though I live far away, now!”
Once past the introduction, the welcome into the Trapp family was basically done, especially as far as the children were concerned. The older ones were looking forward to the promise of fun: they conversed about jazz, establishments, parties, Henry’s and now Liesl’s reckless stunts and Marianne’s more reserved approach to enjoying life. Brigitta wanted to hear everything about the Prince of Wales, which made Henry worry a lot (“You can dance with him once, if he asks, then you will stay the hell away from him, young lady!”)
Kurt and Brigitta were also interested in cars, but Henry could not say much other than he alternated driving his Bentley 4 litre with being driven around. “We have started having a look at cars, now that we can repair bicycles!”
Martha and Gretl were glad to be able to pepper Henry and Marianne with questions about everything. Football, mainly (“Is it true that it was born in England?”); a mild interest about horse riding; how was Liesl faring; whether there were other handsome and young lords like him (luckily, Georg didn’t hear his eleven- and thirteen-year-old asking that), and so on. The highlight of the conversation, however, was Henry’s inevitable “You are Margarethe, not Gretl” moment.
“Margarethe? What are you, a teacher? Only they call me ‘Margarethe’.”
“You look smart, and you are not a little girl anymore! I never called your sister ‘Liesl’ either!”
“Yes… Liesl would never be able to say no to you.”
Henry was astonished at the boldness of the girl. At eleven? “How do… oh, dear. Marianne, were you this troublesome when you were her age? I honestly don’t remember.”
Anna and Florian were mostly interested in cuddles and play. Surrounded by seven older siblings, two doting parents, and a large household staff, they had no shortage of attention—and they knew it. In a few months, even baby Karoline would start demanding adoration, and it would be over. (Well, for the Trapps. The Haverstones only had about a month in year to bear with it.)
Max had told Henry all about Elsa fainting at the telegram first, then at the letter mentioning that even the Prince of Wales would be among the guests. He had also made her see reason: the journey from Vienna to London was long and trying. Even the children’s grandmother still wasn’t sure if she would come, since she wasn’t young anymore. But Elsa was, indeed, keeping several shops in business with all her purchases.
Liesl was kidnapped by Max and Elsa for a full hour. The interrogation was relentless.
“So, is the Prince of Wales as handsome as your Earl?”
“You crashed the DUKE OF KENT’s private charity event?” (Elsa fainted a third time.)
“How many gowns, dresses, and hats have you already?”
Liesl, now clearly a product of London society (and just a little bit smug about it), sipped her tea with calculated serenity.
Then: “If things between you two are as usual, my dear Aunt Elsa, I advise you to look your best and try to dance with the Prince as often as possible. It shouldn’t take much, if the rumours are true. You’re still a stunning blonde.”
Max didn’t miss a beat. “Is there a duchess somewhere? A consolation prize for me?”
Max had also tried to lobby Henry into exporting the custom of the withdrawal of the women for some manly time over port (or cognac, or brandy, or Schnaps) and cigars. But the other men really didn’t see the reason for it, used as they were to live all together.
On the other hand, the girls did have their own secret meeting in Liesl’s sitting room, and invited Marianne. Poor Marianne was still partially dazed.
“I thought the language issues would be a problem, but nooo! Your father and both your older brothers! They are devastatingly distracting!!”
“We hear that all the time from all of Austria, and part of Italy, too!”
But the main meeting was Georg and Maria’s invitation issued to Henry and Liesl, of course.
Georg was still split between the old role of the diffident father and the probably more fitting role of the affectionate father, ready to welcome the young man who had made her girl smile so much. The couple were often both smirking, as if they were in on a joke together. (They were, in fact, in on several jokes together.)
Maria loved Henry already. Liesl’s letters had already told them so much, but seeing them together was confirmation enough. Their way of jesting was definitely more extreme and sophisticated than her and Georg’s sarcasm and self-deprecation; and the older couple would definitely never do something as mad as crashing a party (if one ignored the fact that, as of 1932, there were very few parties in Austria, and most of them weren’t worth the trouble of crashing them). But she could recognise the patterns of a worthy love.
Uncharacteristically, Georg tried to force himself to get rid of that last vestige of the old world by making use of his humour. “So, Henry. Liesl told us that one of the things you did that brought you together was the idea of a British mandate on Austria, with the goal of reinstating a constitutional monarchy. Or securing a jazz ensemble that brought along a few strangers from their previous gigs and almost destroyed my brother-in-law’s house. I am not sure which one. The letters we received left some ambiguity.”
“Well, actually both,” deadpanned Henry.
“And I thought our love story was peculiar, Maria.”
“It was,” she exclaimed, almost indignant that someone might argue it wasn’t.
Liesl grinned. “Are we competing on who had the most singular path to love and engagement?”
And apparently, they were competing. Both couples shared the pivotal moments of their acquaintance (in an appropriate version for a parents/children conversation) that brought them together. The laughter at the most absurd moments bonded them together, and tranquillised even Georg, who acknowledged, “we might discuss all night about which love story is the most beautiful, but one thing is sure: I now feel secure that my daughter is marrying for love.”
“Papa, we definitely win the originality competition. We went against all clichés. Mama and you flirting the instant you saw each other? Your Wallersee flirting?” And Henry completed, “Cliché!”
On a more serious note, Maria added, “It’s also very comforting to know that you will also share your political engagement, and that both our couples see eye to eye on the main current issues. We already told you everything. It’s very hard for us, and here: we are isolated. I am glad you will be living in a strong constitutional monarchy, surrounded by people who are on the same page as you or close to.”
Henry offered, “we will write often. Both sides need the exchange—an outlet, counsel, making plans. For us, it’s also our duty to report on matters that might require our attention. And we will visit often. We thought we’d start with a month per year. And don’t worry—we can afford it.”
Liesl then remembered something important. “There is just something I haven’t told you yet. I thought it would be better to discuss it in person. I have converted to Anglicanism.”
Georg and Maria stopped in their tracks.
Liesl reprised. “I know it is so… alien to an Austrian Catholic. But, you see, I am going to be a Countess, and serve the Crown side by side with Henry. The Church of England is mostly… a political thing, if you squeeze it. And, to be honest, the Pope… is not different; a king in his own right, a politician. If we look at the faith, theologically, the difference between Catholicism and Anglicanism is almost neglectable. Nothing to do with Lutheranism, or Calvinism. All the rest is just politics, Mama, Papa. And as the wife of a politician, I made a strategic move, to strengthen our role as Lord and Lady Aldbury. Nothing has changed.”
Georg turned to Maria. “What do you think? I am theologically not as versed as you.”
Maria thought about it for a while. “I think she is right. The difference is neglectable, and I am sure you are both taking marriage seriously. It’s only natural that we are shocked, but… it will wear off. We don’t really think much about the Pope either, in this family. We read the Gospel, try to follow the Commandment of love, and that’s it.”
“Mh-mh”.
“I know you care very much for symbols, Georg, and I know you can be very attached to traditions. But sometimes, life brings us in another direction. You left your monarchist group because they were steering towards fascism and forgetting constitutional monarchism. But you are still you, still a constitutional monarchist. Liesl has done the same in essentials: she has left behind something that did not fit anymore, but she is still the same person.”
“I guess you are right. It will just take some time to absorb, that’s all.”
Henry spoke up. “That’s perfectly normal. And yes—we take marriage very seriously. Though I have to admit, our faith isn’t as strong as yours. We pray together because we hope it will help; you pray together because you feel you are being guided by God.”
“Then we will pray for you, too, Henry. I am sure your meeting was providential. The community of ideas there is between you and Georg cannot be a coincidence. Oh, and we will all pray together. Neither the Pope nor the King need to know of it.”
Georg chuckled. “Maria’s rebel streak has always been stronger than mine, see?”
She answered, “But yours come out in the most crucial moments, darling.”
The big family reunion saw other conversations like the one between the two couples, but also saw moments of sports and games (with Henry and Liesl captaining “England” against Georg’s and Maria’s “Austria”), of playing with the little children (Liesl snapped a few pictures of Henry playing with Anna’s dolls and spinning Florian around, as well as letting Karoline grasp his finger), of assembling food parcels for families in need, of hiking and swimming.
There were also, of course, some animated private parties, with all kinds of music, and always a sudden need for extra cleaning and maintenance following them, calling in other people to support the villa’s staff.
Then came the Festival opening: Georg and Maria, Henry and Liesl, Elsa (with Max in the backstage), Constance, Constanze, Marianne, Friedrich, and Louisa all went, trying to support the economy and to lift the mood. Henry tipped everyone he crossed madly, and so Georg and Friedrich started imitating him, causing a few smiles on faces that had long seen none.
But it was still sad to see the sign of the crisis all around them.
A small sign of hope, though, came in those weeks, from a Tyrolean town not too far from Salzburg, where the mayor was trying to help his citizens concretely, and seemed to meet with success.
Georg, Maria, Liesl, and Henry wanted to be witnesses of this experiment, to see whether it was worth supporting and, maybe, campaigning for. Therefore, they took the train to Wörgl to see first-hand how Mayor Unterguggenberger’s experiment with demurrage currency in his municipality was going.
On the train, Liesl was still rather taken aback by the fact that she was now having a trip with her Mama and Papa as well as with her fiancé as if they were friends.
As she had always imagined, her father and Henry were deep in animated conversation about the virtues of a true constitutional monarchy. At one point, Henry even dared to joke seriously about a British mandate over Austria—unless they were actually plotting, jokingly. Liesl wasn’t quite sure where the irony ended and the ambition began.
They got out the train in the Tyrolean town, and went down Bahnhofstraße to check how the ‘currency’ worked in the local shops. They found a lot of enthusiasts who voluntarily told their tale of how they had found work, how the cellulose factory had been reopened, how unemployment had sunk—one carpenter mentioned he had consistent commissions again because people were eager to spend their Wörgl currency before it lost value. They stood by the mayor, praising how his demurrage currency that lost a bit of value each month, pushing people to keep it moving, had revitalized their town.
They even managed to shake hands with Unterguggenberger: Liesl had struck one of her first Henry-like stunts by talking to the communal usher about the important guests that they were—Captain and Baroness von Trapp, their daughter and her fiancé, Lord Aldbury, an important member of the House of Lords—and how this would mean new positive headlines, and… there they were, complimenting the mayor and even getting a few pictures with him. Henry paid in ordinary Schillings, to help the Municipality further by giving them the means to trade with the rest of the country.
As they got back to town, they sadly crossed a group of National Socialists, who were rather vocal about why people should not participate in the Mayor’s emergency plan: they were ranting about how it was a 'Jewish trick' to weaken the bordering German economy by seducing Bad Tölz’s mayor as well, and to steer Austrians away from the real goal they should pursue, the reunification with Germany. Georg and Liesl tried to steer their lovers away from them, but apparently the young militants thought they should indoctrinate them. So, they followed the two couples, trying to stop them, on account of them looking well off enough not to lean left, politically speaking.
And for the first time in eight years of knowing her, Georg heard Maria speak Tyrolean. But they were not words of love that she spoke. Not at all. Neither did she speak those words to him, which he was grateful for.
“Voschwindts, ihr Gfrasta! Wenns enk net schleichats, setzt's wos!“
To which the Nazis answered “Na, du Trutschn, wos willst denn?” and shoved her right into Liesl.
Neither Georg nor Henry needed a translation. Henry glanced at Georg with a half-smile. “Didn’t Elisabeth say you’ve got no qualms about a good brawl when it counts?”
“Not in the slightest.”
And with a shared nod, they rolled up their sleeves.
About half an hour later, “a Baron and Captain, a Baroness, their daughter, and an English count. All brawling like bricklayers in the town centre. Bravo, what an example you are setting!” commented a gendarme, who had them all in his office, far away from the one where the National Socialists were similarly being questioned.
Liesl raised an eyebrow. “Bricklayers don’t usually punch back in heels.”
Maria just rubbed her knuckles and muttered, “I’ve had worse. Ottakring, you know.”
Liesl was also translating everything into English, which nerved the Gendarme even more. “Is it really necessary, Fräulein?”
“My fiancé’s German isn’t good. He needs an interpreter.”
Henry pulled out his wallet and started counting Schillings, pounds, and dollars in plain sight of the Gendarme. Liesl understood what he meant to do, and translated Henry’s words as soon as he started talking.
“So, this must be worth… what would you say? Two-hundred Schillings? A few pounds and dollars too, for good measure?”
The Gendarme was appalled. “Sir, are you trying to bribe me?”
“Of course I am trying to bribe you! So, come on. Some Schillings in case you need to buy something outside Wörgl. Pounds and dollars might buy you freedom, if no one supports your mayor and this country goes to shit. Tell me what you wish, and you will have it! Anything!”
And just like that, the quartet walked out the Gendarmerie, free as a bird (a thing that could not be said for the Nazis). Liesl reminded that “Friedrich says we have to put your noses back into place immediately, and you will be as good as new. Your perfect noses will still make us swoon,” and Maria and Liesl each fixed their lovers. Lovers whose bravery faltered only at the touch of a broken nose—but quickly recovered under a kiss.
They arrived back in Salzburg with a few bruises, black eyes, the men also with some suspicious blood stains on their shirts, and an interesting story to tell.
During a lazy August morning, after breakfast, Georg asked Martha and Gretl — in his ‘nice Captain’ voice — to go and play with Anna and Florian, and to check whether the nanny was managing all right with Karoline.
Then he signalled to the maid to bring more coffee.
A few knowing glances were exchanged. Nothing more, nothing less.
Then he began asking questions. In English.
“So, I’ve heard some rumours. But first things first. Is it true that, a few days ago, Martha and Gretl each received a shirt from our Austrian Football Wonder Team?”
Liesl volunteered: “Yes, Papa.”
“Now, about those rumours. There’s talk that yesterday, after dinner, some unemployed men from Aigen were hired to drive ‘fancy people’ to town and back—and generously paid for it. Their gas tanks were filled, too. Do you think something like that could really happen, these days?”
Henry suggested, “Well, it’s Festival time, and there are still people who can afford such a thing. So yes —why not?”
“Mh-hm. And… there’s also talk of an after-Festival party at Café Bazar being crashed by a group of young rich people. With the help of one of the organisers, no less. Do you find that likely too?”
Friedrich said, “Why not? There are fewer and fewer places for young people to simply be young and happy. I know I’d crash a party these days, if I got the chance.”
Georg continued. “The rumours get wilder. As wild as the dancing. Jazz, I’m told. Some older people were scandalised. There were a few minor damages to the premises—all paid for immediately by one of the young people. Oh—and here the stories get confusing. There’s talk of the handsome younger son of a local war hero kissing one of the Festival artists in front of everyone. Some say it was actress Dagny Servaes. Others say it was dancer Nini Theilade. And others say… both.”
Kurt felt it essential to correct the record. “It was Nini. We’re the same age, you know.”
Georg fulminated him with a stare.
“To conclude: there’s talk of a team of unemployed people being sent early this morning to the Café to help with cleaning and repairs. All paid in advance. That, to me, sounds like the wildest rumour of all.”
Henry did not agree. “There are plenty of people willing to help those in need. Catholic, Anglican—it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the business owner made a profit, and some people will have enough food for a while.”
“Mh-hm.” Georg and Maria exchanged a nod.
Maria only glossed, “Now we only need someone to calm Elsa. She’s convinced Herr Reinhardt will fire Max.”
“But I’m sure,” she added, with a faint smile, “someone will appear soon and perform one last act of charity.”
Elsa’s murderous stare—universally understood — concluded the rather peculiar conversation.
18 September 1932.
The day Haverstone Hall would acquire a new Lady—and the day Henry and Elisabeth would finally begin the life they'd dreamed of on windswept hillsides, London balconies, and Salzburg’s riverbanks and meadows. It was a day of state and a day of the heart: a wedding with quiet diplomatic weight, Royal Family attendance, and more than one pearl-clutching dowager muttering about Papists in a C of E church. But above all, it was theirs.
St. John the Baptist’s in Aldbury had never held such a congregation—not in living memory. “The entire front pew smells of Austrian pastries and Chanel!” one old churchwarden would mutter later, half-scandalised, half-impressed.
The vicar, Reverend Dr Meriweather, a man of stiff upper vestments and liberal leanings, had been briefed about the family's, shall we say, continental composition. He took one look at the pews full of continental aristocrats and beautiful von Trapp children, and decided it would be best to say nothing about denominations. “The Lord made all peoples and all tongues,” he reminded himself under his breath. “Even if some of them sing far too well. Or yodel.”
Henry stood at the front in impeccable morning dress—black coat, dove-grey waistcoat, silk cravat, and that preternatural calm that made people forget he was only twenty-eight. His shoes gleamed like obsidian. His hair—brushed just off his brow—gave him the tragic elegance of a young king. But when the organ struck up and Liesl appeared at the door, even Henry faltered. His breath caught visibly. Ricky, beside him, muttered, “Well, that’s game over.” Bea, standing up for Liesl, hid a cackle with a cough.
Georg stood tall and wordless in his tails, his military poise still intact—but Maria, watching from the pew, could see the tiniest tremble in his jaw as he led Liesl down the aisle—in ivory satin with a dropped waist, a long train held by Martha and Gretl, and a diadem from the Aldbury collection. When the organ swelled, he blinked once, hard. Maria didn’t even blink. She let out the tears for her daughter and for her dear husband.
Gromi, who in the end had decided to come to honour her daughter’s memory, tried very hard not to give in to tears, as did Elsa and Yvonne (though Max was suspiciously smiling too much). The children were all excited, including Anna and Florian, who waited reverently outside with both their Austrian and English nannies, baby Karoline in tow, ready to process in with posies during the vows.
The Whitehead clan, naturally, occupied one full pew beside Gromi. The two Connies and Hede sat beside the children, offering calming sweets and stern whispers. On the opposite side, a rather colourful mixture of peers and bright young things filled the rows. The Prince of Wales had arrived with his equerry, dressed in formal morning attire with his signature carnation—no uniform today, a quiet nod to his non-official role. His presence was enough to elevate the wedding to whisper-level scandal at any club in St James’s.
And yet he looked quite at ease—amused, even—as the choir launched into the Te Deum. Elsa, notably, was seated three pews back, in a dress far too flattering for Anglican modesty. The equerry coughed twice. Max smirked openly.
When the moment came, Liesl’s voice was clear and steady. Henry’s only cracked once. The vicar’s blessing was short, solemn, and heartfelt.
As the couple knelt at the altar, Maria and Georg squeezed each other’s hand—firmly, tenderly—and exchanged an affectionate look. Not just pride. It was a quiet vow renewed: a prayer for the road ahead, for their daughter, and for the young man who now carried her heart.
The couple exited as the bells pealed in full triumph, in the midday sun, the presents and a lot of onlookers gathered to watch the young lord and his new lady.
The older von Trapp children were mysteriously gathered in formation, a thing only the Prince’s equerry had noticed. Therefore, as the couple stepped down on the gravel, no one stopped the ambush: Friedrich and Kurt flanked Henry, whereas Louisa and Brigitta did the same with Liesl. Gretl grabbed Henry’s ankles—too enthusiastically, making him yell— and Martha Liesl’s. They proceeded to carry the couple across the churchyard, yelling “Long live the bride and groom” and laughing like mad.
Everyone cheered and laughed; Georg and Maria exchanged a look of amused understanding, and commented, “It was only to be expected”; Gromi gasped. Elsa and Yvonne threw a hand over their hearts. The press photographers—and the discreet Palace aide—pretended not to see.
Eventually, the siblings set the delighted (if slightly dishevelled) couple down to thunderous applause, and it was time for the official photos: the couple, the family, the siblings, the gang, the Prince, too, his equerry standing politely behind, a critical eye on the Trapps and on the gang.
Then it was back to Haverstone Hall for the reception, with the couple on a vintage Rolls-Royce Henry mostly kept at the estate.
The first sign that Liesl was now the lady of the estate came with the butler’s booming voice as they entered the Hall: ‘The Right Honourable the Earl and Countess of Aldbury!’ A murmur of admiration (and more than one curious glance) followed.
Kurt jested, “If anyone bothers us, Liesl can have him or her punished, now!”
Gretl had an idea. “We should all move to Aldbury, and have Liesl and Henry punish our teachers!”
Maria and Georg gave them a stern look. Then Maria commented, “As much as I appreciate your affectionate attitude, I think we should all behave a little more formally for a while, to let Henry and Liesl show their more serious side to all the peers and the Prince. I am rather sure Henry himself will come up with something more… animated later, and we will all join in, but let us do our best for an hour of two, all right?”
Georg glossed with his usual sarcasm, “After all, we wouldn’t want any allowances to be cut again, wouldn’t we?”
As they made for their table, after the champagne, Louisa whispered to Friedrich, “Is Aunt Elsa… arching her back in an unnatural way, and playing with her gloves while talking to the Prince?”
“She is even smiling broadly. Oh, dear… no… I cannot even think of it!”
“Well, good luck finishing your medicine studies, then!”
“You know what I mean! It’s just… family…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, we are all spiritual beings… I want to see how your spiritual interest for Bea develops.”
“She is a very intellectual woman!”
Louisa knew when to give up.
The reception proceeded with impeccable decorum, every toast delivered with just the right blend of warmth and restraint, as though mischief had momentarily been suspended in honour of the occasion. When the couple kissed—finally, unhurriedly—it was with a passion that made more than one guest blink and look away, smiling. It may have lingered a heartbeat too long for propriety’s sake, but then again, they were twenty-eight and twenty-two, incandescently in love, and newly wed. Such things were to be forgiven—if not quietly envied.
The dances began soon after, in the most proper English way imaginable. Not even a scandal from Cecil; not an embarrassing gaffe from Marianne.
Maria, an expert in the matter, told Georg, sitting again beside her, “I wonder why there wasn’t even a single shocking statement or action so far. It’s all too quiet, too respectable. I fear Henry has prepared something the size of which we will never see the like again.”
“You would know all about it, darling. Lulling me into a false sense of security before organising a revolution in my home. A just revolution, no doubt, but still…”
“Great minds think alike, darling!”
He squeezed her hand and kissed it. “We both know everything about the calm before the storm. So, when do you think Henry’s secret plan will take place?”
“Georg, you are a military man! What do you think?”
He thought about it briefly. “Probably when a few elderly people have left the premise? Or when he has shown enough of his Earl side? I rule out the Prince as a factor: I have heard enough about him to know he is not going to be scandalised easily. Oh, and you are to keep away from him.”
She brushed his thigh. “So, you’d brawl with a Prince for me?”
Georg blushed, an ironic subversion of roles.
The Prince was obviously enjoying himself, as was everybody. He did ask every single Trapp woman for a dance, but he felt both Aldbury’s and the Captain’s stares on him, so he kept it friendly and charming. Aldbury even approached him as he was dancing with the oldest unmarried one to dispense advice, although in typical Aldbury style.
“Louisa, it is my duty to warn you that if you brand the Prince of Wales with a fire poker, I can’t guarantee the Crown will overlook it.”
The prince, who was being a good sport, jested, “I am not sure if the warning is for me or for your sister!”
“Let’s say it’s for anyone who needs to hear it,” Henry replied dryly.
After all, there was another stunning blonde lined up, already cheerfully raising her flute in his direction with a smile, her husband next to her, not a care in the world. That was promising. Second dance already with her.
Max, in fact, was cheerfully raising his glass, too. “Just remember, Elsa: if you seduce the heir to the throne, please be discreet. We’d hate to make the front page twice in a week.”
Elsa smirked. “If I make the front page, it won’t be for lack of discretion. It’ll be for style. And I am most certainly not doing the seduction, dear. That’s not how it’s done.”
“I know you will make me proud. Which is probably one of the most scandalous things I have ever said in my life.”
“You mean… even more scandalous than our wedding vows?”
There was, indeed, a second dance with the Prince—and even a third—eliciting no small number of raised eyebrows and sideways glances. None, however, more pointed than those exchanged between Georg and Maria themselves. Georg was rather too focused on his wife and his daughters, while Maria, for her part, took careful note of how many women seemed to laugh a touch too brightly at her husband’s remarks.
Ironically, it was they—those paragons of marital restraint—who ended up committing the first true breach of decorum: dancing together not once, but four times.
Which, in certain circles, was practically a declaration of war—or at the very least, a love letter in code.
Henry leaned close and whispered to Elisabeth, “Between their endearing jealousy and the romance of our ceremony, I suspect your father is about to carry your mother over his shoulder and vanish for the night. That’s at least two von Trapps who will definitely not be looking for us in the morning. They are definitely go—”
“Yes, darling, I know,” Liesl cut in, cheeks aflame. “I lived with them. But I’d rather focus on our night, when the time comes.”
Henry grinned, equal parts mischief and pride. “So, my plan worked—slowly driving you to madness by offering nothing but kisses and just enough heat to stop short of scandal.”
“You think you were the only one suffering?” Liesl whispered back, eyes wide. “Do you have any idea how hard it was not to drag you off and compromise us both?”
“Oh, I had several ideas. Many, actually. Which is why I was extremely careful never to let you act on any of them.”
“You really are a devious mind. I adore you.”
“And you, my love, are dangerously persuasive. And I adore you too.”
She laughed softly. “So, we tortured each other for months on purpose?”
“I prefer to say we created anticipation. And now,” he added, his voice dropping lower, “it’s time to reward ourselves. Starting with one of your wedding gifts.”
And with that, Henry cut off the orchestra and strode to the centre of the room, commanding everyone’s attention with the ease of a seasoned performer.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! It is time for me to announce a little surprise I’ve prepared for tonight!”
Maria, raising an eyebrow, murmured to Georg, “I knew it.”
Henry continued, grinning like the cat who’d charmed the cream. “My wife has informed me that there is nothing more English than hats, champagne, and predictable steps. So, naturally, I’ve arranged for something… rather less English. A tribute, if you will, to my two terrible and beloved Irish aunts—both of whom would have thrown a bottle at me had I dared exclude them.”
A rustle of curious murmurs spread through the guests.
“With the enthusiastic blessing of our master of ceremonies,” Henry gestured broadly to his right, “I am proud to introduce: The Mudlark Ceilidh Band! Here to thoroughly dishonour every known rule of English dancing etiquette.” He turned with mock solemnity to the Prince. “Just dancing, Your Highness—no need to summon the equerry.
They’ve played Galway, Boston, the steerage of the Olympic, and one memorable brawl in Belfast. You’re welcome.”
He reached for Liesl’s hand. “Now, for my enchanting lady, and for everyone here except Aunt Constance: this is not civilised Irish dancing. This is step-dancing and fast reels—foot-stomping, chaotic, zero elegance, all heart!”
Liesl hesitated. “But I’ve never done this! I don’t even know how it works!”
“That’s precisely why it’s fun, darling,” Henry said, beaming. “Besides—Aunt Connie! Fetch your favourite gentleman. That’s a lord’s command. Show them how it’s done!”
Maria tugged at Georg’s arm, eyes gleaming. “Oh, this should be good.”
The von Trapp children looked positively feral with anticipation. Aunt Eileen sighed, already regretting everything. And then—music.
The band launched into a wild, joyous reel, violins and bodhrán thundering through the hall. Henry spun a shrieking-with-laughter Liesl into the fray, both entirely out of step and completely unbothered. Constance kicked off her shoes, seized Simon, and began directing him with fearsome precision, a woman transformed.
Gasps echoed from the more conservative corners. Someone asked whether it was the Titanic or the Olympic that sank. But then—the Prince began to laugh. Loudly. And that was that.
He swept a giggling Brigitta into the dance. Maria grabbed Georg with the grin of a girl half her age. Friedrich dragged Aunt Hede in—who had been dying for an excuse. Kurt flirted outrageously with a striking English noblewoman as he pulled her onto the floor. Louisa whirled Ricky in with alarming speed. Within minutes, the dance floor was teeming—chaos and delight.
Even the Whiteheads joined, albeit with Eileen trying valiantly to make it all look like a royal garden party. Only Yvonne, Elsa, and a clutch of scandalised guests remained at the edge, like porcelain teacups in a hurricane.
Georg had lost his tails and danced in his shirt, Maria barefoot and radiant beside him, both laughing like teenagers. The Prince had, by now, danced with all the von Trapp daughters and most of Lady Aldbury’s aunts.
Later, catching their breath during a well-earned pause for champagne and oxygen, Henry approached the Prince with a familiar twinkle.
“So… may Lady Aldbury and I be entrusted with organising the entertainment for your coronation, when the time comes, Your Highness?”
“You’re a charming man, Aldbury, but... over my dead body.”
“Well, technically, that would be over your royal father’s dead body,” Henry pointed out.
“You see why I’m refusing, Aldbury?”
They shared a laugh, and the Prince clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, be honest. Isn’t it about time you disappeared with that stunning new wife of yours? Preferably before the other couples get the same idea.”
Henry offered a gallant bow and a handshake. “As Your Highness commands. It’s been a pleasure.”
“A pleasure indeed, Aldbury.”
A laughing couple was trying to reach the east wing unobserved, hand in hand, anticipation making them giggle nervously and their hearts beat faster.
“Henry… why are there footmen standing at the beginning of the corridor?” asked Liesl as they reached their door.
“Because, my darling, we don’t want anyone from your loving and very large family coming to kiss us good morning, or thank us for the reception, or ask about the estate, or gossip about the Prince. Well, you get the hint. I seriously doubt we’ll sleep much tonight—nor that things will improve come morning.”
Liesl chuckled softly—then saw the change in his face. That look she had glimpsed once or twice before, usually after a particularly heated kiss.
Everything shifted.
She was lost in his dark eyes—never so bright before—and he was lost in hers. He opened the door, closed it behind them, and kissed her like a man who never had to stop again.
The following morning, at a scandalously late hour, Henry and Elisabeth were sprawled in what remained of their bed, laughing.
“Your voice is hoarse!” he teased. “The perfect way to give your first orders as lady of the house. You know, for the entire hour this afternoon when we’ll pretend to care deeply about what should happen to the estate while we’re in Gibraltar and Malta.”
“Your voice is hoarse too, darling.”
“Well, we were very dutiful last night.” He winked, and she pillowed her head on his chest, slapping him teasingly.
Outside, the trees whispered in a breeze that carried away the last warmth of summer. Neither the newly wedded couple, nor the other pair still wrapped in each other’s arms, nor the rest of the von Trapps knew that history had already begun to knock — and that it would knock for them alone.
Notes:
Henry bribing the Gendarme is a tribute to Lucifer’s pilot episode (Henry in my mind is a mix of Lucifer from the show and Fitzwilliam Darcy from the book and 1995 BBC version, both as a person and physically).
The end of this chapter echoes the beginning of "Hard to Starboard" from the Titanic OST: heavenly and sweet, much like Henry and Liesl, and Georg and Maria, joyfully making their way to their bedrooms and waking up the following day after their passionate encounters. However, the next chapter is 1933, and we all know what that year brought. If you don’t, you’ll soon find out, or you can get a hint by listening to the entire piece. (No one dies in the next chapter, but things do start to get direr!)
Chapter 22: The end of the honeymoon (1933)
Summary:
The year 1933 marks the "end of the honeymoon" for the von Trapp family as Hitler's rise in Germany and Dollfuss's authoritarian turn in Austria create a volatile political climate. Georg and Maria are tested as individuals, a couple, and parents, struggling to find a path forward amidst the multifaceted threats and the independent ideas of their adult children. In London, Liesl and Henry adapt their plans, using their social standing and wit to exert influence. This chapter intricately weaves historical events with family drama, punctuated by satire, comedy, and romance.
Notes:
Dollfuß (Dollfuss): The spelling "Dollfuss" has been used for international consistency.
Herr Markl: A monarchist with right-leaning sympathies, previously introduced in the ball chapter, who harbored suspicions about Maria's leftist leaning from the outset.
"Kirche-Küche-Kinder": This German phrase, meaning "church, kitchen, children," refers to the conservative ideal of a woman's role (mentioned in dialogue in English, might sound weird).
Word count: The chapter is 12,954 words.
Chapter Text
31 January 1933, Villa Trapp
Maria swallowed, and brushed her husband’s back. He was turned towards the window, hands behind his back, staring into nothing, the garden a winter wonderland that seemed at odds with the news. “Is it bad to hope against all hopes that it will not be as bad as we think, Georg? The radio says there is a strike against him.”
Georg turned towards her, and crossed his arms. “Hope is a stubborn thing. But even it’s losing the fight, Maria. This is bad, really bad. You know very well Hitler only needs to lift the bar at the Walserberg, or on the Saalach bridge, or in Sankt Leonhard to march in. And he wants to.”
“It’s not like things on our side of the border are going great, darling. The War Economy Enabling Act will not be used as we do, to help people. Only to control people. I frankly wonder why there hasn’t been more opposition, even from our friends. Who wants the government to have such control over the economy?”
Georg stretched his arms to invite Maria into his embrace. “Do you believe me if I told you that I am scared? Captain von Trapp, war hero, scared. I am politically isolated; I have a wife and children who mean the world to me, and I see the world crumbling around us. I see civil war looming.”
She hid her face in his strong chest. “At least Liesl is safe. And she and Henry will spread the news as soon as they receive our letters. We will wait a few days still, to see what really happens.”
4 February 1933, Villa Trapp
They had left Anna, Florian, and Karoline with the nanny, and called all the older children in the study. Friedrich and Louisa had been ordered to come home for the weekend.
“Georg, we need to write Liesl and Henry immediately. The situation is deteriorating.”
Louisa was the most acute. “How likely can it be that on the 1st February Hitler dissolves the German parliament, and on the 4th Dollfuss restricts parliamentary power in Austria? I cannot even believe anymore they are enemies. They sound like friends.”
Maria agreed. “They both have the same view on democracy.”
Georg protested against what he saw as belittling Austria’s concrete danger. “But Hitler wants to invade Austria!”
Kurt scoffed. “What does it matter if we stand to have no parliament anymore and who knows what kind of control on our lives? Does the label ‘Germany’ or ‘Austria’ really matter when we lose all the rest?”
Georg almost lost control. “Austria is not Germany!”
Maria grabbed his arm, trying to calm him. Friedrich offered a mediation. “Kurt is aware that our country is not Germany, as we are all. But we are thinking about the direct consequences of government policies. You cannot deny that a change of flags, as painful as it can be, cannot be compared to the repression of trade unions, to the control of private life by the state, to the dissolution of parliamentary democracy.”
Maria added, “Besides, you know Britain will not stand for an Anschluss, and Henry will have our letter soon, and report to the House of Lords.”
Martha was scared. “Are we in danger, Papa, Mama?”
Georg felt ashamed. He could not even answer her.
Maria went to hug her daughter. “No, darling, no. Remember what we said many times? We are privileged. But things are going to get worse for many people, and we will not stand for it.”
14 February, Mayfair, London
They were once again sprawled over what remained of their bed. A letter was on the night stand, together with two glasses. Several bottles of champagne were on the floor.
“There go our plans for our third and fourth honeymoon. How can it be that in a matter of a few days both Germany AND Austria go to rack and ruin?” Henry banged his fist on the night stand.
“I know, love. That sounds like a nightmare. And to think that we are the lucky ones. We get to read my family’s letter, strategise together, and report to whom it may concern.” Elisabeth stroked her husband’s chest affectionately. “I am worried about Papa. Mama added a note saying that she thinks he is taking this even worse. He fears the Anschluss, too. The others say there is not going to be any difference between Dollfuss and Hitler, from what it seems. That is so difficult for him, to explain that the Anschluss would only add to his pain.”
“Don’t tell him that, but I think it’s good that he retired from political activism years ago. I don’t think he is thinking clearly. Now, about us: I think we need to call off our outing with the others. We need more political strategizing alternated with champagne and intense physical intimacy—our two best tools for staying sharp and sane.”
“So, you’re saying the fate of Europe depends on us keeping this up?”
“That’s right, my dear. Also, I cannot go out in public saying things like ‘This is a bloody damn mess’. Right, Lady Aldbury?”
“You are damn right, Lord Aldbury!”
5 March 1933, Villa Trapp
They were all in the study. Maria felt guilty about having Martha and Gretl listen, but they were not small children anymore, and they would hear them discuss things anyway.
“This is a nightmare. German parliament in the hands of the National Socialists. Austrian government cracking down on Social Democratic organisations.” Her desperation was palpable.
“Maria, promise me never to leave the villa alone. I know you haven’t been a member in a decade, but… I cannot stand being here and fearing that they might stop you and question you. Herr Markl is still around, and he knows. He’s never forgiven you for what he saw as you making me leave the monarchic circle.” Georg trembled while saying this.
Friedrich volunteered. “I am going to pen this one. Although I fear our correspondence might not be private anymore soon.”
Maria suggested, “If things turn for the worst, we will try to bring our letters to the British Embassy directly.”
Gretl asked, “Friedrich, Louisa, why don’t you stay with us? Must you go back to university?”
“University is probably the reason we are still here in Austria and not in England with Henry and Liesl, sweetheart,” admitted bitterly Louisa.
14 March 1933, House of Lords, London
Lord Aldbury was trying to fight a terrible headache, sitting at his desk in his office. He wished it were from champagne; but it was the latest letter from Salzburg, which his wife had just brought over.
“If I hear one more man say ‘but they’re only going after the Communists,’ I fear I shan’t answer for my temper.”
“What are we going to do, Henry?”
“We keep going on. But what about you, darling? Are you worried for your family?”
“I am.”
15 March 1933, Villa Trapp
“So, it’s official: Parliament in Austria is a thing of the past. Same as in Germany.”
Maria’s voice trembled with fury.
Georg didn’t answer. He kept turning a pen in his fingers, eyes fixed on the carpet. As if he hadn’t heard her — or couldn’t bear to.
Only Kurt, Brigitta, Martha, and Gretl were in the study.
Kurt, not exactly currently capable of reading the room, exclaimed, “I told you. I told you it would happen.”
Maria begged him to stay silent with a stare. She knew Georg wasn’t well.
It wasn’t just the endless discussions in which he honestly told her how scared he was for them all, and how impotent and isolated he felt. Or the fact that he felt alone when he put the danger an Anschluss on the same level with all other dangers.
It was eating him alive, she knew. Their love life had always been passionate—electric, and about them. But now, for weeks, he reached for her not with desire, but with dread. There was urgency in his touch, and grief in the way he held her afterwards—as if each night were a farewell, or an act of contrition, as if some invisible court had passed sentence on him.
She had thought to tell him to be brave, and do the only possible thing: to go to Viktor, again, and fund them, against both Dollfuss and Hitler. She knew how difficult it would be for him to do such a thing, with his past in the Navy and as a monarchist. But at least, he would feel like he had done something.
But she knew it was hard for him. It would mean a clean break with the past. It would mean a new kind of bravery. It would mean understanding that he could dare exactly because he was Baron Georg von Trapp, Korvettenkapitän. To be an example.
But he would have to work it out for himself. She could not just tell him, or force him.
Brigitta volunteered to pen the letter to London. She prayed mentally that God help her family, especially her father, who looked terrible most of the time they met to discuss the situation.
9 April 1933, Villa Trapp
Louisa folded the letter and set it down slowly.
“So, both Germany and Austria are fully authoritarian now—no matter what people claim. The only difference? Germany also hunts Jews. Not just political enemies. And they’ve already opened a concentration camp.”
No one replied. Maria cleared her throat.
“At least here, some still try to fight.”
Kurt snorted. “Yes. But it’s only the left. So they’re easy to dismiss. It becomes, ‘oh, they’re just going after the Bolsheviks.’ No one else moves a finger.”
Friedrich leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“You know what the real problem is? If you’re not poor, or openly involved, your life doesn’t change. That’s what people feel. That’s why they don’t riot. Papa worries for Mama, yes—but no one’s coming for Baroness von Trapp over some old youth activism. And as long as we keep our opinions to ourselves, we can live just like before.”
Louisa frowned. “What about Parliament? Voting? Do you really think that’s nothing?”
“For most?” Friedrich shrugged. “Not really. They’ve got their classes, their tennis, their dinners. We were taught to be discreet. Remember arguing with the uncles?”
Brigitta had been silent until now. Her voice was tight.
“And how long do you think we’ll have our friends, Friedrich? What happens when we’re expected to cheer for Dollfuss? Or at least keep quiet when he does something we hate?”
Georg stood, abruptly.
“Never speak to anyone outside this house. Not unless you’re absolutely certain you can trust them.”
The room fell silent.
14 May 1933, Villa Trapp
Maria wrote the latest letter to London in tidy, deliberate handwriting.
“Trade unions dissolved and books burned in Germany. De facto banning of all political parties in Austria. Growing tension between Berlin and Vienna—Hitler’s hunger for expansion, and Dollfuss’s ban on National Socialism.”
She looked up. The room was quiet, heavy. Georg was sitting by the window, staring out as if he could will the trees to speak.
Louisa broke the silence first. “I’m not sure how it will end for us women. The Fatherland Front wants us out of universities. They say it openly.”
Brigitta, arms folded, added, “And people accept it. That’s what I can’t forgive.”
Martha tried to lighten it. “Maybe by the time I, Gretl, Anna, and Karoline get to university, they’ll have changed their minds.”
Kurt shook his head. “They’ll have changed the curriculum, not their minds.”
May 1933, Mayfair, London
“Can you believe that clown? Hitler has been criticising Dollfuss for his repression! Of his own buddies in Austria, of course.” Henry twirled his brandy.
“Two dictators, and two Austrians. But this is slowly developing into Wagner, not Strauss.”
“Elisabeth, do you think we should anticipate our travel to Salzburg?
“What would it bring? My family knows they can come here anytime they want, if they need help. But your valet and my maid are not our stormtroopers, Henry; we cannot just charge and destroy the SA in Germany and the Fatherland Front in Austria.”
“Although, you’ll have to admit that Lord and Lady Aldbury charging at stormtroopers with their maid and valet in tow would be something very much like us.”
He always made her laugh. “Oh, dear… we could train as special units ourselves and try it. The ultimate novel: romance and action. A squadron chasing justice in Continental Europe.”
He kissed her. “Although… I think we might settle for crashing a meeting of the British Union of Fascists. Courtesy of our idiot brother Cecil, who left an invitation lying around.”
Liesl’s grin grew wider, and eviller, almost Louisa-like. “Fancy seeing what the fascists are drinking these days?”
Henry’s eyebrows arched. “Matching uniforms and matching cocktails, no doubt. Let’s go.”
The room was dimly lit and full of men who took their moustaches very seriously. Someone was pontificating about national efficiency, with a display board titled Order Through Authority behind him, featuring statistics about productivity that might or might not have been manipulated.
Cecil, trying to impress a young lady who thought boots the epitome of male attractiveness, sat nodding too eagerly near the back.
Henry made their entrance grand. “Apologies for being late—we were helping some Jews escape from Germany.” A stunned silence followed.
He adjusted his tie. “But please, do carry on. I was rather curious about how exactly Britain plans to become both modern and medieval at the same time.”
One of the stormtrooper-lite types puffed up. “This is a private event.”
Liesl breezed past him. “Excellent. That means no one will report us.”
No one dared to remove an Earl and his Countess, so they let them sit, and watched them closely.
A few more middle-class members tried to have some conversation, to see whether they could bring them over to their cause, host included.
“Lady Aldbury, you look positively radiant,” said the host, bowing low.
Liesl inclined her head just enough. “I wore black to match your movement. I hope it’s not too subtle.”
Henry clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “And what a movement it is! Elisabeth and I adore order. We nearly imposed it on our gardener once. The roses rebelled.”
The host blinked. “Pardon?”
“Roses, you see,” Liesl added helpfully, “don’t respond well to authoritarian pruning. They rather prefer cooperation and natural growth. One might say... they're instinctively Social Democratic.”
Henry leaned in. “I suppose we all must root out Bolshevism where it hides. In the dahlias. In the begonias.”
Cecil, pale in the corner, dropped his tea. Henry and Elisabeth just winked at him.
One ‘forgotten window’ was then the entrance for an alleged fascist baritone singer, ‘directly from Italy’, greeted by Lady Aldbury in her perfect Italian and all. Only Cecil suspected what would be going on soon: nothing supportive of the fascist cause.
The baritone asked for accompaniment. “Rule, Britannia”.
And offered a convincing reworked version of “Rule, Britannia” with absurd anti-fascist lyrics.
“Fools, Britannia, fascists shall not fool thee…”
Then it was time to honour Sir Oswald Mosley himself, loudly and cheeky. Henry cornered the leader and, in his best lordly tone, asked “But sir, if one must suppress parliamentary democracy to create order, might one also suppress dinner guests to improve the quality of conversation? Where does it end, sir? WHERE?”
Elisabeth, always an eye for glamour, asked “Tell me, do you really enjoy having your elite troops dressing like a train conductor? Or is it more of a cult thing?”
The couple drank in Cecil’s mortification.
Cecil had enough. “Henry! Elisabeth! What the devil are you—”
“Saving your honour, dear boy,” said Henry, dragging him by the elbow toward the exit. “Before you become a footnote in Mussolini’s Impero or in the next Reich.”
The press had a field day.
The Times
“BUF Meeting Marred by Satirical Protest – Earl and Countess Voice Concerns over Extremism”
“While the evening was intended to rally supporters of a new political order, Lord Aldbury’s intervention reminded some in attendance that Britain has never responded kindly to uniforms and shouting.”
The Tatler / Society Pages
“Black Shirts, Red Faces – The Haverstones Steal the Show at Mayfair Soirée”
“Lady Aldbury arrived in devastating black, accessorised with biting irony. Guests report that Lord Aldbury’s impromptu interrogation of Sir Oswald Mosley was ‘the most stimulating thing said all evening.’”
The Daily Mail
“BUF Meeting Interrupted by Frivolous Lord and Foreign Wife – Mockery Disrupts Patriotic Discourse”
While Lord Aldbury has long been known for his flair and impudence, many attendees were shocked at the Countess’s brash demeanour and the couple’s deliberate mockery of national values.”
The Manchester Guardian
“Aristocrats Challenge Fascism at BUF Event – Satirical Protest Highlights Growing Unease”
“In the increasingly murky waters of British politics, the Haverstones reminded us that mockery may yet be our sharpest tool.”
“Well, we might buy an extra copy and send it to my family,” said Liesl, handing Henry the scissors. “I think they could use the smiles.”
They worked in silence for a moment, snipping headlines and folding society pages like mementos.
The BUF, attempting to save face, circulated the rumour that the Haverstones had been deliberately invited—as an example of how foolish the aristocracy had become.
Cecil, removed from further guest lists, was livid. “You’ve ruined everything,” he shouted. “This was an important network!” He slammed the door, but not before turning with one final sneer:
“Your Dollfuss is a clown. No one cares about him. The real men are Mussolini and Hitler.”
Early June 1933, Villa Trapp
Maria had suggested the family try to enjoy their private life as much as possible, even avoiding social engagements that might put too much stress on them.
On a quiet Sunday afternoon, the entire family was in the garden. Georg was cuddling Karoline, half-asleep on him. Maria was lying on the lawn, his head on Georg’s legs, alternating reading to a caress to both Georg and Karoline. Anna and Florian were trying to win at football against Martha and Gretl; Friedrich and Louisa were challenging each other at medical knowledge in a humorous way, and Kurt and Brigitta were arguing about the courses at the Technische Universität in Vienna, where Kurt would begin his studies in mechanical engineering in October.
The only moment of bitterness was Friedrich’s question: “Is it true that Uncle Max and Aunt Elsa will not stay here this year for the Festival?”
Maria answered. “We… thought it would be better to just meet a few times instead of living together for a month.”
14 June 1933, Villa Trapp
Maria looked briefly at Kurt, Brigitta, Martha, and Gretl playing with Anna and Florian in the garden, always with an eye on a crawling Karoline, then entered the study.
She was worried. Georg had asked to talk to her with an expression he had never seen. He looked haunted.
He was standing behind his desk, pacing.
“Please, sit down.”
“Georg, you look terrible. What happened?”
He inhaled several times. “When Hitler started openly threatening Austria, I received a visit.”
Maria didn’t like it one bit. What visit? She wasn’t aware of any.
“Some former officers of the Navy and Army, some of my former monarchist group. Herr Markl was here, too.”
“I am sorry, Georg, but… when did this happen? I don’t remember receiving such illustrious guests recently.”
“Second May half. You were at the soup kitchen.”
Maria thought they must have known from the church network I would not be at home. This is not good.
Another sigh, then Georg went on. “They… they told me Hitler would try something. They asked me, out of camaraderie, if I would participate in financing a border patrol here in Salzburg, to stop Hitler from invading. I believed them; Hitler had been clear. I… gave them what they asked for. I… am so sorry, Maria. I am sure they bought weapons with the money, but not for a border patrol.”
Georg saw the most horrifying thing in his entire life. The entire stages Maria went through, just by looking at her face. First, pain, horrible pain, the blow he had inflicted her. Then the pain turned to rage, incandescent rage.
“You. Gave. Them. Money.” It was a cold voice, not his wife’s.
“Yes. I am so sorry. Now that I have heard their laws on education, knowing that Louisa and Brigitta…”
Maria stood up, her hands clenched, her whole body trembling. “OH, YES, BECAUSE THE THINGS THEY HAD DONE BEFORE HAD NOT BEEN PROOF ENOUGH OF WHERE THIS WAS ALL GOING!”
“Maria, darling, I…”
“NO, ‘DARLING’, THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN SAY THAT CAN MAKE THIS BETTER. YOU GAVE A BUNCH OF PARAMILITARY IDIOTS MONEY. THEY MUST HAVE LAUGHED LIKE MAD. ‘THE BARONESS IS NOT HERE; SHE CAN’T OBJECT! AND GEORG VON TRAPP DREADS AN ANSCHLUSS ABOVE ALL!’ THEY DUPED YOU, MAYBE, BUT YOU KNEW WHAT YOU WERE DOING, AND DID IT ANYWAY!
You gave them money. You—you of all people—you who stood for honour.”
Her voice cracked, just once. “How could you do this while I was feeding the poor? They waited until I was gone. They knew I would say no. And you let them.”
“Maria, you are perfectly right, but…”
“I AM NOW GOING HIKING. SOMEWHERE NEAR GLASENBACH. DO NOT FOLLOW ME. I DON’T THINK I CAN TALK TO YOU RIGHT NOW. I WOULD SAY THINGS I WOULD REGRET.” She exhaled, trying to calm her rage. “I will be back when I am in a better state of mind. Take care of the children.”
And she stormed out the study, leaving Georg not only with his previous guilt and shame, but also terrified. Terrified by Maria screaming at him, by her going out alone.
“Maria, please…”
“I SAID DON’T FOLLOW ME. I WILL BE BACK.”
He didn’t try to defend himself anymore. The moment he saw her expression, the shame hit harder than the first time he put the money into Herr Markl’s hand.
What have I done? echoed in his mind, over and over.
She didn’t even change. She marched right out towards the path on the Elsbethen side of the estate.
The children, unfortunately, had heard her screams. Kurt volunteered to go to her and ask what was happening.
“Mama, what happened? Where are you going? Are you all right?”
He was a sweet boy, she knew, but she was not in the right state of mind. “Kurt, I am going for a hike. I need to calm down.”
“Dressed as you are? What happened? You can tell me!”
“Why don’t you ask your father? Keep an eye on the little ones. I will see you later.”
Kurt was very worried, and went right to his father, who confessed immediately.
“YOU DID WHAT? PAPA!”
“I will not have my son screaming at me…”
“WELL, YOU SHOULD HAVE THOUGHT OF IT BEFORE!” Then he tried to calm himself. “Why didn’t you at least tell them you would think about it? Why didn’t you talk to us? It’s a wonder Mama is only going to walk it off.” “Why didn’t you at least talk to us?” Kurt’s voice broke. “You always talk to us. You ask us about everything.”
Then quieter: “Did you think we wouldn’t care?”
On the road to Glasenbach, Maria stomped furiously, still raging. Her husband, her dear husband, had gone behind everyone’s back. He might have been duped, made believe Hitler was trying a paramilitary invasion, but he should have known better than to give Markl the money.
When she reached the first hills and meadows, she paused. The grass smelled of early summer, sweet and sharp. A bird was calling from the woods — she didn’t know which.
She sat on a wooden bench, took off her shoes, and buried her face in her hands.
Her sobs came fast and broken. “Georg, how could you.”
It wasn’t just the mistake. It was the secrecy. The way he hadn’t even asked.
Dinner was on the table, but no one touched it.
Anna and Florian sat stiffly, eyes flicking from one adult to the other. Karoline, mercifully unaware, babbled to her spoon. Martha tried to distract her with a game of “guess what’s in the soup,” but her voice was hollow.
Maria entered through the back veranda door. Her skirt was dusty, her blouse damp with sweat, hair stuck to her temples. She had clearly not changed. Her steps were steady, but her face was unreadable. There was no anger anymore—just exhaustion. The kind that went bone-deep.
Georg stood immediately.
“Don’t,” she said softly. “Just… don’t.”
She sat at the head of the table in her usual place. The children stared at her. Gretl most of all. Her eyes were huge, like someone who had seen something far too grown-up.
“It’s fine,” Maria said, looking at no one. “Let’s eat.”
No one moved.
Gretl tried to help. “Florian, pass the bread.”
He didn’t. He was watching his mother.
Kurt finally broke. “You shouldn’t be the one arriving late and saying ‘let’s eat.’”
“Kurt…” Georg warned.
“No,” Kurt snapped. “You should be the one apologising. Properly. Not just to her. To all of us.”
Maria didn’t stop him.
Brigitta stood suddenly. “What if the universities do close for girls, Mama? What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, Brigitta,” Maria said, finally looking at her. “We will find a way if and when it happens.”
“Some people already fight,” Kurt muttered, not looking at his father.
Georg pressed his hand to his forehead, then downed half a glass of water as if it were vodka. He didn’t speak. He had no words left.
Maria, quietly: “Let’s get through dinner. Then, if anyone wants to talk—we’ll talk. But I won’t let this table become a war zone.”
She looked at Kurt. “Not tonight.”
Kurt clenched his jaw. “Fine.”
There was a long pause. Then Brigitta sat again. So did Kurt, slowly, arms crossed.
Gretl passed the bread.
Karoline laughed, utterly delighted, holding up a carrot slice like a trophy.
No one else smiled.
Maria stood by the window, still in her worn clothes. She hadn’t taken off her shoes. The light was gone, but she hadn’t lit any lamp. Georg came in quietly and stood behind her, unsure.
“I sent them to bed,” he said. “They had questions. I told them you’d talk to them when you were ready.”
Maria didn't turn. “Thank you.”
Georg hesitated. “I thought… I thought maybe I’d sleep in the guest room tonight.”
Finally, she turned around. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red. “Why? To punish yourself more? Or to spare me?”
He looked down. “Both.”
Maria stepped closer, but not too close.
“I am angry with you,” she said. “Not because you were cruel. Not even because you were weak. I’m angry because you were cowardly. You let yourself be talked into something that went against every value you claim to live by. And then you didn’t tell me. For weeks. You let me laugh with you, sleep with you, trust you—and all the while you carried that secret in your chest.”
He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand.
“You let me fight in ignorance. You let me face things without knowing what had been signed away. What you had signed away. Alone. You took my voice out of it. Out of our marriage.”
Georg whispered, “I thought I was protecting you.”
“No,” she snapped, not loudly, but with steel. “You were protecting yourself. You were afraid I would leave, or at least distance myself, if you said you wanted to prioritise a border patrol over not giving money to those we don’t align with.”
He didn’t deny it. He simply nodded, ashamed.
Maria softened, barely. “We can’t divorce, Georg. You know that. We wouldn’t, even if we could. Not because of the Church. Because we love each other. Because this family matters.”
“Today… I mostly feared you’d get hurt,” he murmured. “You running away to walk dressed like the Baroness, not the hiker, and so angry and distraught. And I feared you’d stop loving me. That day and today.”
There was silence. Then, quietly:
“I would never stop,” Maria said. “But I need time to see you clearly again. Because the man I married — the man I still love—is not the man who did that. And right now, the blow you dealt me still hurts. I have to make peace with the fact that you are not perfect.”
Georg's face crumpled. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking utterly defeated. She walked past him to the dressing table, removed her hairpins, then slowly began unbuttoning her blouse.
He stood to leave.
“No,” she said.
He stopped.
“You’re sleeping here. And you’re going to hold me. Not because I’ve forgiven you. I haven’t. But because this—” she gestured at the bed, the room, their life “—us—needs to be held together, even if it’s by threads tonight.”
He swallowed hard, nodded. “Yes, Maria.”
When they finally lay down, she pressed her back to his chest and took his hand, guiding it to rest on her waist.
“I will cry,” she warned.
“I will too,” he whispered.
And they did. Quietly. Together.
She woke up early, her sleep fractured by nightmares. He was still there—awake, watching her as though she might vanish if he blinked.
She caught her breath and then did something brave—something born from the fear still clinging to her like mist.
She brushed her hand across his arm as if nothing had happened.
“I told you. I still love you, you know. I just need time to accept that… you were capable of something like that. We had almost seven years of honeymoon. Now it’s the time the Mother Abbess and Father Peter warned us about. The difficult time.”
She sighed. “And maybe… maybe you need time, too. I screamed at you. I yelled. Not even when we argued as governess and employer did I raise my voice like that. And I know for a fact Agathe never screamed. Gromi told me.”
“I deserved it,” he said softly. “Yes, Agathe didn’t scream. She wasn’t the kind to protest. But that’s neither here nor there. I want your forgiveness, Maria. I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”
“Then we’ll talk. Every day. We’ll be parents. We’ll sleep in the same bed. And we’ll work it out.”
Later that morning, Maria spoke to the children.
She told them that she and Papa would be talking in the coming days, and that they’d explain everything when the time was right. That the political situation had placed strain on all of them, and that it was important to move carefully—to avoid hurting each other with words said too quickly, too sharply.
In the afternoon, she invited Georg on a walk with little Karoline. They took the pram, but started out carrying her between them. Georg clung to their youngest like a lifeline, holding her close as they walked side by side.
“She has your hair, truly,” he said, brushing a hand through the baby’s fine curls before pressing a kiss to her cheek. Karoline cooed in response, and grabbed her father’s collar.
Maria smiled at the tenderness, even though his face bore the sleepless strain of that awful night.
“You know what I thought?” she said gently. “First of all—you confessed. That means a lot. No one is perfect. But you knew you had done wrong, and you told me.”
“I… I should have told you sooner.”
“You told me when you found the courage. And I’m glad it was the new education laws that finally made it impossible for you to keep quiet. We have seven daughters. Liesl is safe—but the others still have to write their futures. Your heart is still in the right place.”
She paused.
“But I have to admit… it was disappointing. We met so often to discuss everything, to write to Liesl together… and yet… Georg, you’re a military man. And you got outmanoeuvred.”
He winced. “I just felt so passive. Helpless. I don’t belong to any political faction anymore. Our friends are becoming strangers—either because we can’t afford to talk politics, or because they tell us we’re lucky, and that we shouldn’t worry. I thought… I thought Hitler would invade. And the only thing I could do was buy a few weapons and hope someone might defend the border. I’m so, so sorry.”
Maria stopped walking. She laid a hand on his arm.
“I’ve told you many times, Georg. You are exactly where you need to be. Here. As a husband. As a father. We can’t be politically active—not openly. We can’t risk leaving nine children without parents. What we can do is prepare them for what’s coming. For the world they’ll inherit.”
Karoline was starting to fuss, her tiny arms flailing, so Maria took her gently and nestled her into the pram. The baby let out a soft sigh and began to settle, blinking sleepily at the morning sun.
Georg adjusted the blanket around her legs and then stood up. His hand brushed Maria’s as they both reached for the pram’s handle at the same time.
She didn’t let go.
Instead, she slid her fingers into his and gave a little squeeze.
“We’ll be fine,” she murmured. “Just… don’t outmanoeuvre me again, Herr Korvettenkapitän.”
A soft chuckle escaped him, choked but real. “Understood, Frau Baronin.”
And so they walked, side by side, hand in hand, their baby girl softly snoring in the pram between them.
The following day, another scene of familial harmony played out.
Maria and Georg first played football with Gretl, Martha, Brigitta, and Kurt—Kurt was slightly more competitive than usual with his father—then with Florian and Anna, while the others were assisting Karoline in her attempts to walk.
Seeing Brigitta holding Karoline and encouraging her to go to Kurt, who had his arm outstretched and called, “Hey, Karoline, come to me. There is a kiss for you!”, was a balm for their souls. The older children had always been that sweet with their younger siblings, and they never could get enough of seeing that kind of love.
“Did you do that for me too?” Gretl asked.
“I was too young, Gretl. It must have been one of our first governesses.”
The bitterness in Kurt’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. It was another dart at their father, a reminder of another time he had failed them.
“Liesl and Friedrich must have helped,” he added with a shrug. “You should ask them.”
Maria tried to bring them back to reason. “Children, your father thought there were attempts at invading us. And he is sorry. And he already got enough words from me. Don’t be like that, please. We will talk as soon as Friedrich and Louisa come home from university.”
They exchanged glances and offered a defeated nod—the kind that silently said, “Fine, but I’m not happy about it.”
When it was time for a pause, Maria took Georg’s hand and pulled him toward the blanket, where they lay down together. The children had their own blankets and handed back a drowsy Karoline to her mother, who placed her gently between herself and Georg.
Florian and Anna came running—Anna launched herself onto her father, Florian nestled against Maria for cuddles. The parents smiled at each other, quietly grateful.
Then Anna, solemn as only a five-year-old can be, announced, “Papa is going to open a university for us girls! Thank you, Papa!”
She planted one of her very best kisses on Georg’s cheek.
The older children’s sneers made it clear where that idea had come from. Still, a creative revenge was better than cold contempt.
The return of Friedrich and Louisa should have marked a return to peace. It was not to be.
Friedrich arrived first—his journey shorter, his worries fewer. He greeted everyone, talked of study sessions and hikes with friends, and then they waited for Louisa.
She arrived like a storm: slamming the door, stomping up the stairs, looking more fearsome than Elsa at the mere suspicion of a ruined soirée.
Friedrich ran towards her. “Lou, what happened? Did someone stop you, question you?”
She stopped on the stairs and looked down at him. “You might say that.” She turned to continue to her room, but he caught her arm gently.
“Lou, come down. Whatever that is… isn’t it better if we talked all together? Or do you want to speak just with me? With Mama?”
Kurt added, his voice low and loaded, “Yes. It’s better if we talk all together. Otherwise… things happen. Things no one wants.”
Louisa paused. She found resonance in Kurt’s bitterness, and after a second, came down the stairs.
Once again, the three youngest were left to the nanny. The rest gathered—ready for one of their political family talks.
“Louisa, what happened? You look… terrible,” Maria said.
“Oh, I’ll tell you.” Her voice was sharp, controlled, a blade.
“Some professor at the faculty kept making remarks about women in medicine. About how the new laws will restore proper order and stop the spread of feminine ambition.
There aren’t many of us young women. And it gets too much.
So, I snapped. Told him off. Loudly. In front of most of my study group. I told him what I think of the Fatherland Front.”
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a letter.
“Well—now I’m expelled.”
The words dropped like stones.
“Oh, Louisa…” Maria rushed forward to hug her.
Georg felt a knife twist in his chest. Again.
Kurt, of course, couldn’t keep quiet. “Wait until you hear what Papa did…”
“Kurt!” Maria warned, but too late.
“…he got duped into financing the Front. Was told Hitler would invade and they needed money to patrol the border.”
For the second time in days, Georg saw fury dawn across a face he loved.
And braced.
“OH, THANK YOU, FATHER! YOU FIND A WAY TO DISAPPOINT EVERYONE ONCE A DECADE!”
Maria winced. It was a calculated blow.
Louisa had always been the bitterest. The one with the sharpest tongue, the cruellest pranks.
The one who couldn’t reconcile the sweet, laughing papa of her early years with the distant, silent man he had become after Agathe’s death. Maria had hoped that wound had healed.
But it was clear now—it had only scarred over.
Louisa had twisted the knife. And Georg looked on the brink of tears.
Maria stepped in.
“Louisa, we all agree it was wrong. And your father has heard it already, believe me. But please—don’t say things you’ll regret.”
“I don’t regret it, Mama. And I don’t care. My life just got destroyed.”
“Louisa, we’ll find a solution. But please—go wash your face, take a breath, and then let’s talk.”
“No. I don’t want to see him. If he’s at the table, I’m eating alone.”
Georg tried, quietly. “My dear girl… please. I am sorry.”
“So am I. Go eat with your Front buddies.”
And she stormed up to her room.
Friedrich followed her. He missed Liesl, in moments like this—the quiet anchor she could be in turbulent times. But he had to try to talk to Louisa. They were part of the “trio”, the oldest ones, and he was a medicine student too. He noticed open drawers, and belongings strewn on the bed.
He entered tentatively in her room. “Lou… I was thinking. Why don’t you join me in Innsbruck? You could transfer—it's still medicine, and… I would protect you as much as I could.”
She didn’t even turn to him. She continued doing what she was doing: packing her things instead of unpacking. “I’m not changing trains, Friedrich. I’ve left the station.”
He was confused. “What do you mean? You said expelled, but surely, they can’t—”
She snapped. “It’s not just Graz. I’m banned from studying in Austria. Period. That’s what this means. Between the decree of expulsion and the new laws, I am never getting into higher education in Austria again.” She tossed the letter at him.
He read the decree, and paled. “…My God, Lou…”
She drily replied, “So Innsbruck’s out. But London isn’t.”
“Wait, what? London?”
She pulled out other things, this time from the wardrobe. “I am going to Liesl and Henry. They definitely have space, and I know they would be thrilled to have me there. I also suppose Henry can help me get into uni there. But I am not staying in this country anymore.”
Maria walked in and heard the last words.
“Louisa, stop. Please. Just stop for a moment.”
“Don’t try to stop me. I am leaving.”
“You are reacting. Listen, I am not saying it’s a bad idea. It’s probably a great idea. But you cannot just pack your things now and depart for London. Henry needs to know about what happened. He needs time to… well, you know how he is… to get you a visa and admission to university. And they are coming to Salzburg in August. Just wait for them.”
Louisa sat on the bed and sighed, a dress still in her hand. “…Fine. But I’m not eating dinner with him.”
Maria knew it was time.
“Children, we all know what happened. I have thought a few things.
First of all, your father confessed. Spontaneously. That’s something.
Second: he is a man of action, and he has been prevented from acting since his former group drifted in the wrong direction. They were clever; they knew when and how to get to him. Soon after Hitler’s and Dollfuss’s declaration, and as I was helping the poor.
Third: we all love Austria—but your father, he breathes it. The flag means something to him in a way we sometimes forget.
Fourth: no one is perfect. We make mistakes. Brigitta pestered Kurt for years, yet now they are two loving siblings who share a lot of interests. You played tricks on me when I first arrived, then we came to love each other. Let’s forgive, even if it takes time.”
The children’s eyes glazed over slightly, a distant look settling in as they nodded slowly. Georg nodded too, his eyes glistening.
Only Louisa remained still and dark.
Then Maria added, “Louisa, we all know how deeply wrong this is. And I know what it feels like, to be pushed aside for being a woman. We’ve all had our battles.”
Georg tried to speak, too. “Louisa, my child—”
“Don’t call me that. You financed the very people who would see me only in church, in the kitchen, and with children, and only that. You knew nothing about them. And you handed them the future.”
Georg was now barely holding back tears. “If I could go back and undo it, I would. I will fight to fix it. But I can’t lose you, Louisa. Not like this.”
“I’ve already lost everything that mattered. There’s no place for me here. I’ll go to London. I’ll send a telegram to Henry and Liesl tonight.”
Maria tried to milder the blow. “Georg, and everyone. I agree that going to London is the best solution we can find. Liesl and Henry can host her, and Henry can surely help her get settled. But we also agreed we would do this without hurry. Louisa, your rage will diminish, trust me. And… children leave the house when it’s time. Liesl is already there; one day, every single one of you, children, will find their own way. We are still a family, even if the rooms get quieter.”
Martha was sad. “Yes, but… it is not as it used to be. We will see each other less.”
Gretl tried to be more optimistic. “One day, you will be happy to leave for your own place, Martha! Liesl is happy, for sure!”.
Later, that night, Maria repeated the explanation of Louisa’s bitterness to Georg. “I am sorry she never really healed. Maybe even the others have felt that wound reopen. I am sorry; you do not deserve this. You have atoned for that sin long ago. You have been the perfect husband and father for years.”
They slept in each other’s arms, again, after praying together.
On Monday, a telegram was sent to the Haverstones in London.
GOT EXPELLED STOP MIGHT COME STUDY IN LONDON STOP NEED YOUR SUPPORT STOP WILL WRITE SOON STOP LOVE LOUISA
A few days later, the admissions office at University College London received a visit from Henry Haverstone, Earl of Aldbury, in full lordly regalia: polished shoes echoing with confidence, trademark grin firmly in place, and a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. Hat in hand, he stepped forward.
“Good morning! Lord Aldbury, straight from Hertfordshire. I’m here to enquire about the admission of a rather brilliant young woman to your faculty of medicine. Austrian. Expelled for being too clever and too female, apparently. We'd like to give her a place at your fine institution before someone else with sense does. Also—small detail—she’s my sister by marriage. And from what I gather, your faculty and this young woman would get along exceedingly well.”
The admissions officer raised a brow. “That’s very interesting, my lord. But we don’t usually handle international exceptions without—”
“Tell you what: let’s say, hypothetically, she was top of her class, multilingual, and personally recommended by someone who once convinced the Foreign Office to issue a visa off-hours.”
“I suspect that was you, sir,” the officer deadpanned.
“I knew you were a clever one. You’ll go far—I might even help with that. As for accommodation: our townhouse in London and our estate in Hertfordshire should suffice, wouldn’t you say?”
With a sigh, the officer pulled out a form. “Who is the lucky lady?”
“Miss Louisa von Trapp. Just keep her away from fire pokers. And from idiots.”
The answering telegram read:
HOW DOES UCL SOUND STOP SENDING LETTER WITH DETAILS SOON STOP LOVE LIESL AND HENRY
Louisa felt a little of her rage dissolve. She reappeared at family meals and even kissed her father on the cheek—albeit distantly.
Later, Maria invited Georg for yet another walk, hand in hand. Their recent exchanges had been limited to kisses—on the lips or on the cheek—holding hands, and sleeping in each other’s arms. A quiet, tender departure from their usual passion.
As they strolled, Maria suddenly said, “You know, it feels like we’re finally having the chaste engagement we should have had.” She let out a dry laugh. “Hand holding, walks, talks, chaste kisses...”
Georg smiled, amused. But there was a deeper seriousness in his eyes.
“I always want you. But I’d never touch you knowing you resent me, even just a little.”
Maria turned sombre. “Do I look resentful now? Do you think I resent you? Even the hurt and disappointment have already faded. And my anger—well, it was explosive. But it burned out fast.”
“You tell me when you want our passion back,” he said gently. “I don’t deserve the right to decide.”
She slowly slid her arms around his shoulders and kissed him—deeply, fully.
“Power to women,” she whispered, smiling against his lips. “I like it.”
A few days later, even Louisa took her father aside and simply threw her arms around him.
“I am sorry, Papa. It’s just that… I am neither Liesl nor Friedrich, not even Kurt, who deep down is a sweet boy. Or one of the others. When I get angry, I get angry. I have no boundaries. And I love you so much. That made me even angrier—I didn’t know what to do with it. I’m just lucky Liesl and Henry were ready to help. Without them, I think I would’ve crumbled.”
Georg held her tight, knowing that in a matter of weeks she would go live in London. “I will be sorry for what I have done all my life. But hearing you say you love me despite all is a balm.”
“Of course. We all do.” She kissed him on his cheek.
Liesl and Henry’s arrival in August was, as usual, an event, with everyone thrilled to see the couple not just because of Liesl, but because of Henry, ‘adopted’ as a true sibling by everyone thanks to his personality.
Liesl and Henry, however, had not shared in the sweet moments of reconciliation. Maria’s letters had explained as much as possible, but Louisa’s letters had been bitterer. And, anyway, the Haverstones were political figures, who were putting everything on the line to inform the British of the happenings in Austria and Germany.
Not to mention that travelling via Germany had exposed the couple to the widespread use of the ‘Heil Hitler’ greeting. A rather nerve-wrecking experience for them, especially since they could not afford to counter it with their usual means.
Therefore, the young couple, this time accompanied by their valet and maid, decided to be very sarcastic with Georg.
Liesl asked, after her hug and kiss, “So, any recent visits by Dollfuss asking you to buy him heels to look taller?”
Henry announced, “I am afraid I never introduced myself properly. Henry Haverstone, Earl of Aldbury. In service of His Majesty’s government, and—more importantly—blissfully married to your daughter Elisabeth. Also, one of the recipients of your thoughtful analyses of the situation in the area. Not the son of someone who finances the Heimwehr, or the Fatherland Front.”
Liesl added, “I know you have talked among you, but we needed to say our piece, too. Especially for Louisa. That will be all, don’t worry.”
Georg lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I understand. I apologise to you, too.”
This moment was the last of tension in the family, and their usual mood of friendship and love reprised. Anna was excited to see Liesl and Henry again, and she tried to monopolise them to talk about ‘her debut’. It was all Friedrich’s fault, who had told her the story of Liesl’s ball and of her birth.
But Liesl wanted to cuddle Florian and Karoline too, with Henry in tow. The others took pictures of the tender scenes.
Then it was time for the usual musical, sportive, and recreative pursuits, until Elsa and Max came to visit, and asked to talk to all the adults.
“I really don’t understand why you are making this bigger than it actually is. There is absolutely no threat to you. A single outspoken daughter, who should have known better anyway, and who has already found another solution, is not the measure to go by.” Elsa tried to be realistic.
“Besides, Herr Reinhardt is a target of Hitler’s antisemitism. Your presence would be an act of solidarity. Governor Rehrl and Dollfuss are trying to use him against Hitler—why not outshine them instead?”
The family decided to go and see the Faust, then. Henry and Liesl were tempted to do one of their stunts, but they reflected that they could honestly put the rest of the family in trouble, so they settled for another idea.
Maria, Liesl, and Louisa would all wear a red dress, despite Liesl thinking that red would not suit her as much as it would her blond mother and sister. The colour would be ambiguous enough: was it a reminder of the red-white-red of the Austrian flag, or a political statement? No one would know; everyone would wonder.
Georg and Henry obviously escorted their beloved wives; Friedrich escorted Louisa, and Kurt escorted Elsa, since Max was behind the scenes. Elsa would have been happy to appear with any of the handsome brothers, but remembering that last year Kurt had caused a minor scandal by kissing a dancer, she preferred to keep the seemingly more troublesome one under control.
She didn’t need to do much, though. The group behaved as their status dictated, and brought elegance and competent appreciation to the show. They did not refrain from some witty repartees in private, though.
Henry, after the third “heroic” choral ode to the Fatherland Front, did comment “Since it was decided to offer more than Mozart and Jedermann, the artistic direction of the Festival has really decided to explore all genres. Should we talk to Max?”
Liesl leaned in innocently after one spirited speech, and commented, translating into English for her husband: “They said this piece was about ‘Austrian spirit’—did they mean wine or obedience? My German must be getting rusty.”
Maria observed, “I didn’t remember the Christian-Socials fighting antisemitism. Quite the opposite, really.”
Unsurprisingly, Louisa answered: “They have been outmastered,” and Friedrich added, “The fox and the grapes,” to the amusement of everyone.
They got invited to an exclusive after-Festival party at Castle Leopoldskron, with Max and Elsa convinced that the family would not do anything that would out them as opponents of the Dollfuss regime, and reassured in their conviction by the fact that they had, indeed, behaved decorously at the Festival itself.
Elsa added, “I trust you all to remember that this is Herr Reinhardt’s private party. I still remember last year at Café Bazar. There will be no encore of that performance.”
The beautiful rococo palace and the baroque garden hosted the main personalities and artists in a rather civilised do. The Trapps and Haverstones were greeted by Herrn Reinhardt and even by Governor Rehrl with enthusiasm, and they tried to be as supportive as they could, ignoring Rehrl’s hypocrisy on the antisemitism issue. There were several leaders of the Fatherland Front and of the Heimwehr, after all.
After some tiring civilised mingling, Liesl and Henry wandered into the beautiful garden, the moonlight reflecting on the lake, the Untersberg visible in the background.
Liesl observed how beautifully romantic it was. “It’s so perfect, look. It seems almost staged.” She kissed her husband on his neck.
Henry was suddenly inspired. “Shall we make it even more disgustingly romantic? Or lower the tone?”
Liesl answered: “Why not both at the same time?” And the couple explored the garden looking for the perfect corner for them. No one could blame them: it was the perfect setting and the perfect evening for a couple in love.
Meanwhile, Georg and Maria were caught by the same beautiful atmosphere with rather similar words.
“I know it’s not the sea, darling, but it’s so beautiful,” said Maria, kissing her husband between his jaw and his ear.
Georg was inspired, too. “A good sailor is a good sailor on all waters, my darling.” And with those words, they retreated to a hidden corner, away from polite company and even further from polite behaviour at a party. Although one might have argued that said setting should not have gone wasted, and that the aristocracy had always distinguished itself by its debauchery.
Both couples re-entered a while later, hand in hand and visibly dishevelled. The men cleared their throat, the women blushed; all of them exchanged looks of understanding. Elsa noticed, of course, and had her sting ready.
“Did someone fall into the lake, or just into temptation?”
Henry attempted an explanation. “Dear Aunt Elsa, if you put a perfect garden with a lake, the Untersberg and a full moon…”
Elsa fumed, and hissed, “Just as I thought ‘this time, it’s all going to be perfect’… you cannot wait to be back in your luxurious bedrooms? What is wrong with you! Everyone can understand what you were up to!”
Friedrich was trying not to listen, embarrassed as usual by any hint of interest for physical love among his family; Louisa was stifling a laugh and wondered where was Kurt. He had disappeared a while ago, mentioning the need for some air, some distance from the Austrofascist clowns, and a cigarette away from the crowd. Was he meditating on the beauty of the garden and of nature in Salzburg, too?
Later, the wife of a local Fatherland Front leader, Frau Ilse Rettenhofer entered the hall—dress askew, coiffure rather ruined, her cheeks displaying a healthy colour. Frau Rettenhofer was definitely still a young woman in her twenties; her husband maybe less so. Also, her husband seemed deep in talk with other comrades and a few politicians, and not particularly interested in what his wife would do at such a gathering.
Elsa and Max whispered between them, “What was she doing and with whom?” The scene had potential both as juicy gossip, and as harbinger of trouble.
Kurt did reappear, after a while. Smug. Smirking. Hair dishevelled. Shirt collar unbuttoned, bow tie untied. He rejoined his siblings—luckily, Georg and Maria had decided to head home. He plopped down on the sofa with the others, picking at a canapé.
Henry, Liesl, Friedrich, and Louisa looked at him astonished.
Kurt finished his canapé, then said as an explanation, “Front husbands. Very loud. Very disappointing.”
Friedrich almost fainted. “Kurt! Oh, dear… no, no, no…”
Louisa was of a different mind. “Oh… Kurt… wow! But… how?”
Friedrich put his hands on his ears, whereas Henry and Liesl leaned in to hear more.
Kurt explained, “The woman clearly was waiting for some handsome young gentleman to go out and be thoroughly instructed by her on how not to be a disappointing Fatherland Front husband, we could say. She was very assertive, you know.”
Liesl and Louisa cackled. Henry commented, “Usually, a gentleman should never kiss and tell, but in this case, the political relevance of your… let’s call it ‘sacrifice’ allows for an exception.”
Liesl added, “I am glad our parents are home. There would be hell to pay, otherwise.”
Elsa arrived in that moment, Max in tow, and hissed at Kurt, “You kissed a dancer last year. Now this? Do we need to import decency next season? Frau Rettenhofer? Of all people? With such an influential husband? Don’t tell me rich and handsome boys like you two have to resort to consoling unhappily married women in gardens during events.”
Friedrich claimed innocence, of course. “I don’t do this kind of things.” To which Kurt, cheekily, added, “He wants to wait for his wedding night to even touch a woman, you know.”
Max tried to calm her. “Elsa, these things are rather complicated…”
“Yes, they are complicated, which is why you should at least teach your nephews how not to be so obvious.”
Kurt kept his cheeky act up. “Come on, Aunt Elsa, her husband hasn’t noticed. Too deep in some virile discussion about beating some Social Democrat instead of being…”
“Don’t you dare!” Elsa almost shouted at Kurt.
Max tried to make her see reason. “Darling, I will definitely have a chat with Kurt. But if you shout, or slap him, you are bound to attract more attention than if you just let him be.”
Elsa, now near apoplexy, muttered: “What will they do next? Gretl runs off with a young Social Democratic paramilitary trooper? What are they called, Republikaner-something?”
Max guffawed. “Well, she’s twelve, give her time.”
Louisa, sipping something scandalously alcoholic, added: “You shouldn’t joke. That’s actually Martha’s type.” She didn’t need any fire poker to leave a mark on anyone.
One would have thought that Louisa’s preparations for her move to London would have been the main event of the remaining days of August. Even Liesl and Henry’s travel to Palestine via Italy in September was an event—they would then meet Louisa in Italy to go together to London.
And yet, two surprises completely outranked these events.
The first was Henry and Liesl’s offer to stay and help with Karoline, Florian, Anna, Gretl, and Martha while Georg and Maria spent a few days at the seaside in Cannes to forget about the political situation for a while. Italy’s fascism had made Istria unattractive as a holiday option, since they now had enough fascism at home, and since they now felt ashamed for their previous opportunistic behaviour.
The Haverstones’ offer was gladly accepted.
The second surprise was a rather unexpected revival of Kurt’s enthusiasm for long walks alone.
“Just a bit of air,” he’d say.
Or, “I think better among trees. We all need some introspective moments at times like these.”
Friedrich, who knew every shade of his brother’s sarcasm, found these remarks deeply suspicious. So did Louisa, though for entirely different reasons.
It was Martha who first saw them—Kurt and Ilse Rettenhofer—walking up towards one of the unused hunting cabins at the far edge of the estate. She was on a nature walk with Anna and Gretl, collecting moss and pretending to be forest witches.
Anna, ever innocent, had looked up dreamily. “He must have found his princess.”
Gretl and Martha, newly initiated into the art of gossip by their peasant friends from Aigen, were far less dreamy—and much quicker to report.
By then, even Brigitta knew about the party. Kurt had confided in her, finding her far easier to talk to than Friedrich, who was too full of principles and intense silences.
When Martha and Gretl gave their report, Friedrich nearly fainted. Again. The others sneered or sighed—except Henry, who remained oddly composed.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “Not the cliché of the young man who fancies himself a white knight. Or is it the woman who dreams of being saved by one? You Papists cannot even divorce—what does she think is going to happen?”
He spoke without glancing at the two youngest, entirely forgetting they were in the room. Then recognised his mistake. “You two should not be here, listening.”
Gretl frowned. “Excuse me, but we are not children anymore.”
Liesl turned to her. “You are twelve and fourteen.”
Gretl was unmoved. “And we’ve had enlightening conversations with peasant children. They say rich people live very sheltered lives.”
Henry, now visibly panicking, tried to wave them off. “That’s enough. Go play with the little ones.”
Gretl folded her arms. “Actually, they told us that some of them are already… active. At our age.”
Friedrich turned white.
Louisa and Liesl exchanged alarmed looks.
Henry looked like he might faint himself.
“Oh no, no, no, ladies. Not until you’re older. And not until you understand what you're doing. Which you do not.”
Martha tried to calm him. “We know all about the doctrine of the Church. Sin. Hell. All that. Don’t worry. We’re not interested yet. We’re just… aware.”
Henry groaned. “Please, God, don’t let this be pinned on us. Elisabeth, your parents are strict Catholics. They might ignore what Kurt is doing, but if they think we’ve corrupted the girls—”
Liesl touched his arm gently. “Henry, we all gossiped at that age. We just didn’t have older siblings around. And if they wanted to do something stupid, they wouldn’t have told us first. Kurt used to make jokes about Mama and Papa kissing. Friedrich and Louisa used to laugh when Gretl asked for a baby.”
Friedrich, recovering his voice, added gravely, “Regardless of all that… it’s not our place to pry. But we do need to talk to Kurt. Before this becomes a proper scandal—or worse.”
That’s how Liesl had to call an official gathering of the siblings—adolescents included. After tucking the little ones into their beds, they all met in the sitting room. Kurt, blissfully unaware of the evening’s agenda, was already pouring himself a glass.
It started like many of their sibling gatherings, with a bit of liquor and some laughter.
“One day,” Friedrich toasted, “we’ll pass the torch to the younger ones too. What a responsibility, to hand down our doctrine of love and sibling solidarity.”
Louisa smiled, nostalgic. “You sound just like the night after Florian was born. Martha and Gretl’s first sip of beer—and our worst behaviour on record.”
“Speaking of records,” Liesl said crisply, “Kurt—what exactly do you think is going to happen if you keep spending time with a married woman? And not just any woman—one married to a Fatherland Front officer.”
Brigitta’s voice followed quickly. “And on our estate! Have you lost your mind?”
Kurt turned scarlet. “And we’re discussing this in front of the entire family?”
“Martha, Gretl, and Anna saw you,” Friedrich said, not even trying to keep calm. “Walking toward the hunting cabins. On our land. Do you think Anna won’t mention anything to our parents? Are you really this reckless? I’m leaving the moral aspect out of this,” he added, breathing hard. “That’s your business…”
“Friedrich,” Kurt interrupted, mocking, “not everyone thinks waiting for the wedding night is romantic.”
“No one asked about my choices,” Friedrich shot back. “But let me ask you this: what happens when Herr Rettenhofer finds out you’ve been playing white knight to his wife? And what happens when his friends from the Front and the Heimwehr decide to ‘teach you a lesson’?”
Henry raised his voice for the first time. “You and Friedrich aren’t so different, Kurt. One of you puts romance on a pedestal; the other tries to turn a moment of poor judgement into some noble quest. This woman is married. In Austria. As a Catholic. She can’t divorce. You’re not in love—you’re in love with an idea. With yourself in a role.”
He looked at him seriously. “And maybe you’re carrying some Catholic guilt, trying to redeem something that didn’t need saving. Either way, it’s foolish.”
Louisa cut in sharply. “And this, Martha and Gretl, is exactly why we don’t make stupid decisions. Ever.”
Kurt stood up, defensive, but not entirely angry. “It’s none of your business. Ilse is… kind. And she’s happy when she sees me. That matters too. She sought me out, not the other way around. We just started talking… and kept meeting. I’ll be more discreet, if that’s the issue.”
“Oh, I’m sure you were discreet,” Liesl snapped. “And what about her? Coming here? Aigen isn’t London, and neither is Salzburg, Kurt: the one is officially a village, the other is practically a village. People notice.”
Brigitta tried a softer tone. “You’re starting university in Vienna in October. Shouldn’t that be your focus? You might even fall in love—really fall in love—with someone there. Someone who isn’t married.”
Kurt was pensive for a moment, then sighed. “Sometimes things happen that are… beautiful and doomed all at once. I won’t drag her into this anymore. That should be enough.”
Friedrich crossed his arms, still not entirely convinced. “It better be enough, Kurt. For her sake and yours.”
Louisa tilted her head, then nudged Brigitta. “Well, he says he’s done. Let’s hope he doesn’t mean ‘done for now.’”
Martha frowned. “I still think it's all very sad.”
Gretl added, with her distinctive bluntness, “But at least she won't come to the estate again, right?”
Henry stood up, stretching a little. “Love and doom are a classic pair. Just don’t get poetic about it when bullets start flying.”
Brigitta gave Kurt a half-smile. “We’re watching you, you know. But… thanks for listening.”
Liesl looked at each of them, then raised her glass slightly, as if to seal the moment.
“To Vienna. To London. To growing up, all over again. Possibly without getting caught, this time.”
Henry and Liesl had been right. The months of political strain had worn everyone down, and Georg and Maria had seized the chance for a brief escape, which they were now happy they had taken.
Cannes in late summer shimmered. The sea was warm, the air salted and heavy with the scent of pine. Onshore, the promenades buzzed, but out here on the water, peace reigned. No uniforms, no telegraphs, no children asking where they’d put their books or crayons or instruments. It was like during their honeymoon, with that short trip just to show the sea to Maria, but with the beauty of the late summer and of seven years together.
The argument in June had been brief, but the heaviness of the year lingered. Louisa would soon leave for London, Kurt for Vienna. Their family was stretching across borders, and the invisible strings still pulled tight at Georg’s heart.
So, he had rented a modest yacht, dropped anchor far from prying eyes, and said: “Let’s enjoy the day like a sailor and his wife, far from the rules of society.”
Maria had laughed. Then, checking the horizon, she'd slipped off her sundress. Now they lay together in the shade of the canopy, bodies bare, utterly relaxed. Her head rested on his shoulder, fingers gently moving across his chest. One of his arms cradled her, the other absently playing with her hair at the nape of her neck., Freedom, peace, and intimacy.
“We could do this next year, too,” she murmured.
“Well, that depends on Liesl and Henry. Who knows—there may be a child by then.”
“They want to come in August, to visit us and enjoy the Alps,” she replied. “Liesl told me they plan to spend the first years just being together. Enjoying life. Serving the Crown. She doesn’t want children yet.”
Georg raised his eyebrows. “She really has grown. That’s such a departure from our world. But… she seems happy. And they have time.” He sighed, then turned slightly toward her. “You know, this makes me think of something.”
She lifted her eyes to him, expectant.
“I love each of our children. I wouldn’t change a single one. But each time—each pregnancy—there was that flicker of fear, that helplessness. I always worried something would happen. To you, to the baby. And I know it’s not something we talk about, but sometimes I think how good it would be to just… enjoy each other, without that risk hanging over us every single time.”
Maria blinked, surprised. She gently stroked his chest. “Georg… don’t you think God will help us? He sent Henry to Liesl, after all. And I always recovered well, didn’t I?” She kissed the corner of his jaw. “But you never told me you felt that way.”
“It wouldn’t have helped. You’re the one carrying the risk. I just carry the fear.” He kissed her forehead softly.
“We have hope. And joy,” she said. “From our children, our conversations… our bed.”
Georg’s expression shifted into a smirk. “Well—bed, desk, dresser, rug, wall, garden, yacht…” He counted them off on his fingers, grinning like a schoolboy.
“GEORG!” Maria laughed, free and light, as he began peppering her face and shoulders with kisses.
“I should check if you’ve caught the sun,” he said, voice low and playful.
“Doctor’s orders?”
“Naval protocol,” he replied solemnly, already trailing his lips down her collarbone.
When they came back, it was time for Liesl and Henry to depart for their tour of Palestine.
“You know, we need to study how this mandate is being applied, if I am to take over a similar mandate for Austria,” Henry jested with the family.
They had planned a few diplomatic visits, of course, along with a more religious tour following both Catholic and Protestants trails. It was a constant of theirs, that their travels always involved both their private sphere and their public role. And, contrary to what many people might think, they enjoyed it immensely: being the Earl and the Countess of Aldbury made them happy for all the things they could obtain in their role.
In private, Henry had also added to Elisabeth, “And I suppose I will have the opportunity to enjoy my lady wearing sundresses, or swimsuits.”
“HENRY! We are going on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, among other things. And you see me without a stitch on me quite often!” Liesl chuckled.
“And I will definitely say thanks for finding you during our pilgrimage, of course, darling.”
They came back to meet with Louisa in Verona, to go back to England via France, just in time for Louisa’s new life and for the House of Lords.
The separation from Louisa was hard. Kurt was only moving to Vienna and would visit often; Louisa would be beyond the Channel, and since civil aviation still didn’t sound safe and viable, the only way was a long journey by train and ferry. Georg, eyes shining, said quietly, “You’re leaving home not as a wife, but as yourself. And you won’t be coming back—not really. Your life will be across the sea now, in England. I just hope it will be a good one, Louisa. I know you’ll do great things. And I hope it’s also a life where you’ll be loved—because you deserve that too.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
Maria added, “You are so intelligent, Louisa. I wish you to be able to reach your goals, and to publish, as was your wish. But I also wish you to find more than just a career in London. To find a home.”
“Thank you, Mama. I am sure I will be fine. But I’ll miss you all.”
Louisa turned to Friedrich with a sudden spark in her eyes. “Why don’t you come with me?” she asked. “Aren’t you tired of pretending just to keep everything as it was?”
He blinked, startled by her bluntness. “I… suppose as long as the act holds, I’ll stay. But one day, I might wish I’d gone. Take care, Lou.”
Louisa then greeted Kurt. “Make us all proud. You’ll become a better engineer than Papa,” and she winked at Georg, who replied, “Parents always wish for children to be better than they are.”
To Brigitta, she told “Keep Kurt in check. And if anything happens to your plans for the future, we’ll be waiting for you in London.” To Martha and Gretl she told the same, adding that “football is indeed England’s favourite sport.” Then there were the little ones, with Anna already old enough to be sad for her departure, shedding tears. “I want to come with you to Liesl and Henry’s,” she said. Florian and Karoline were happy with cuddles and kisses, and the promise that they would see each other here and in London.
As the train that took Louisa to Verona pulled away and the children waved until their arms ached, Maria found herself standing a little longer on the platform, watching the smoke dissolve into the pale winter sky. Her family was no longer a single, solid thing—it was scattering like seeds. Louisa to London. Kurt to Vienna. Liesl to London and, potentially, to anywhere they wanted with her bright, charming husband. Even the little ones were growing, asking questions, dreaming of places she had never imagined. It was as it should be, she told herself. But the ache of it still caught her breath. She reached for Georg’s hand. “They’re all becoming who they were meant to be,” she said. “We just have to keep being home, until they find their own.”
That night, after the children had gone to bed and Maria was brushing her hair in silence, Georg stepped out onto the balcony with a glass of cognac. The London fog would soon swallow his daughter. Vienna’s unrest would shape his son. They were slipping into lives he couldn’t chart for them—no sea maps, no safe harbours. He had always trusted discipline, structure, the straight course. But nothing about fatherhood had followed those rules. He thought of Louisa’s determined chin, Kurt’s restlessness, Liesl’s unshakable charm, Friedrich’s reserve and romanticism. And next year, Brigitta would leave home, too. They were strong. They would endure. Still, a part of him would always listen for their footsteps on the stairs, hope to hear their laughter down the hall. He took a sip, stared into the dark. “So, this is what command looks like when the fleet sails off without you. Just like in Cattaro. But with a more precious cargo.”
Henry, Liesl, and Louisa soon came up with the idea of inviting the family to London for New Year’s Eve, which would avoid tense political conversations with the rest of the family and friends in Vienna.
The family undertook the long journey to be reunited at the Haverstones’ townhouse, for the joy of everyone. Louisa was happy, had already been officially accepted into the gang of friends of the Haverstones, and she promised she would come to Austria in August with the couple.
But there was also another important reason why they were all summoned.
Ricky—Lord Mattishall—had asked Marianne to marry him, and she had accepted. Henry wasn’t sure why that had come to pass, but she had assured him and Liesl that she liked Ricky well enough and that they would be happy.
Liesl was worried for her husband’s mood. “Do you think there is anything wrong with them marrying, darling?”
Henry sighed. “You know how I am, darling. I worry they’re marrying out of duty—or worse, convenience. It feels so... tidy.”
Liesl tilted her head. “They do like each other, Henry. They’re just not as peculiar as we, the Trapps and Haverstones, are.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You mean hopeless romantics with a touch of madness?”
“Exactly. As Aunt Elsa says, the world wouldn’t survive too many of us.” She dropped into his lap with a kiss, banishing his worries with affection.
So, two other people of the gang would marry, and Henry foresaw that Ricky and Marianne would become less of a presence in London. Life continued to change inevitably, and it soon would be another year, 1934. What would it bring? New loves for the ones still searching? New developments in Austria and Germany? No one knew.
Chapter 23: Civil war and uncivil matters (1934)
Summary:
In 1934, the Austrian Civil War unfolds, revealing the Austrofascist regime's ruthless efficiency and forcing Georg and Maria to take principled, high-stakes actions that solidify their unity. Their growing children are thrust into the political maelstrom.
Liesl and Henry covertly spread the truth about Austria abroad via a renowned correspondent, while Kurt's 'tragic-romantic' exploits lead to a scandalous confrontation that involves Brigitta and Friedrich, and deeply displeases his parents. Georg shares more of his personal history (completing the bit from ch. 11) and begins to involve the children in the family's shipping company as a protective measure.
The chapter also addresses the clumsy Nazi coup attempt in Austria, Hitler's subsequent internal purges, and concludes with the family attending the Salzburg Festival, using the cultural event to subtly express their anti-fascist sentiments through support for Toscanini.
Notes:
Mild warning: Description of a brawl that escalates. Mature themes, including a discussion of infidelity (not Georg and Maria, don't worry!); swearing; mentions of violence, death, and the death penalty.
Historical Context: George Eric Rowe Gedye was a real British correspondent whose works, such as "Fallen Bastions" (1939), offer extensive accounts of the Austrian Civil War in English.
Cultural Note: The joke featured in this chapter is a popular Italian anecdote, frequently adapted to satirize various politicians over time.
Spelling: The international spelling "Dollfuss" is used throughout for enhanced readability.
Chapter Text
22 January 1934, villa Trapp
“What do they mean, selling the newspaper Arbeiter-Zeitung is prohibited from now on?” Brigitta sounded upset.
“Well,” Maria replied, “it was rather expected. I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”
25 January 1934, villa Trapp
“They’re now searching for weapons in the hands of the Social Democrats. I can tell you—they’re preparing something big this time,” said Georg with the certainty of a military man. “I’m worried about Kurt in Vienna. Salzburg and Innsbruck are too conservative, too sleepy—but our hot-headed son is in the middle of it all in the capital.”
Maria was on the verge of tears. “Do you think something could happen to him? I hope it wasn’t a mistake to introduce him to Viktor. I just thought… he might need someone who isn’t family or friends, in case—well, in case something happens. Like what happened to Louisa.”
Georg tried to find the right words. “They’re trying to provoke. To get someone to shoot or overreact. As for Viktor—better Kurt knows how to find him than wandering the city on his own, looking for trouble.”
“He sounded calm on the telephone,” said Brigitta.
Martha and Gretl nodded. “Very calm.”
None of them had noticed Anna eavesdropping. “Is Kurt in danger?” she asked, her eyes wide with fear.
Georg crossed the room at once, scooped her up, and sat with her beside Maria, who joined him in gently caressing the six-year-old.
“No, darling,” Georg said, “there’s just a bit of trouble with some politicians. We’re just hoping Kurt won’t feel the need to speak his mind—because some people wouldn’t like what he has to say. That’s all.”
15 February 1934, villa Trapp
Georg had only seen Maria cry like that once before—after their argument last year. An argument that now, in hindsight, made him feel even worse. He could only brush her back in silence.
“They shot citizens with guns and cannons! They fired on council housing!” Maria sobbed. “They called in the Army! And now the Neue Freie Presse speaks of ‘cleansing’ and a ‘return to peace’! What peace?”
Kurt had made it home. Apart from the hotspots, the rest of Vienna had remained strangely undisturbed. He had managed to reach Viktor—at great risk to both of them. Viktor, more theorist than fighter, hadn’t barricaded himself with the Republikaner Schutzbund. He was now in hiding, unsure whether to flee abroad with the Party leadership or stay to support those who couldn’t leave. For now, he was staying.
Thanks to Kurt and Viktor, they knew the real story. As Georg had predicted, the government had searched homes and party offices, hoping to trigger a confrontation. The headquarters in Linz had had enough. They fired first. The fighting spread through Austria’s industrial centres, where resistance had been quietly building. But it was no match for a country mostly conservative, with the Army at the government’s disposal—and the press blaming the Social Democrats for it all.
“They shelled council flats, as if to send a message,” Kurt said grimly. “They’ve already executed some Schutzbund leaders, and more executions are scheduled in the coming days. Garroted, of course.”
Brigitta added, “And now everyone will believe the Party wanted a revolution, not just an end to authoritarianism.”
Georg weighed in. “An armed insurrection must be planned, coordinated, backed by more people. This was a spontaneous outburst. It ended disastrously. But still… we must honour those who had the courage to fight. Barricading yourself in a building with the police and army coming for you—that takes courage.”
Kurt nodded. “It was courage.”
Friedrich spoke up. “We do love lost causes, don’t we? It almost makes me think we should have gone. Imagine the headlines: ‘Children of Captain von Trapp join the rebellion.’ Maybe people would have listened. Maybe we could’ve made it clear this was about resisting the regime—not Bolshevism or whatever Dollfuss is claiming.”
Georg gave them a glare sharp enough to silence a regiment. Maria's look was no softer. Then Georg spoke—slow and firm.
“And what makes you think you’d have come out alive? You’re university students. You haven’t even served.”
Martha and Gretl had been quietly crying for some time. Maria, her voice unsteady, added, “Some of those killed—some of the executed—may have been people I knew. That’s already hard enough. The last thing I want is to lose you, too.”
Martha whispered, “Should we pray for them?”
Maria and Georg nodded. Kurt remained silent.
Friedrich had one more thought. “With the state of emergency and all this—do we risk anything?”
Kurt answered bitterly. “Well, no one should mention I met Viktor Wladek, for starters. And, as always, best not to speak our minds too loudly. I’ve had to fucking juggle words like an acrobat whenever Cousin Connie visits. She still thinks we should all join the Front.”
“Kurt,” Maria said, her tone not brooking debate, “could we please try to speak more civilly to each other in this house?”
24 February 1934, Vienna
Vienna had grown quieter, but not safer. The couple moved carefully through streets that seemed to hold their breath.
Finding Viktor had been difficult. Those who were still in Vienna were cautious, as they should be. But thankfully, Maria and Georg had the right words—passed from Viktor through Kurt—and that opened the doors they needed.
Viktor welcomed them in.
“It’ll be safer to talk inside,” he said. “But you must know—if the police come and find you here, you might get into trouble. Tell them you were visiting an old friend. Be convincing. And hope for the best.”
His flat was in the kind of controlled chaos that signalled someone preparing to leave. A few half-packed cases, papers everywhere.
“I’m still here. It’s a miracle I wasn’t arrested or forced to flee. I’d like to stay, if possible, to keep working. But… we’ll see.”
He reached for a bottle of Schnaps and three small glasses.
“I hope neither of you will object to a toast—to the fallen ones.” He looked toward Georg as if expecting hesitation, but found none.
Georg gave a quiet nod. Maria whispered, “Of course.”
They clinked glasses and drank, a sharp silence settling afterward.
Then Viktor got to the point.
“So, I hear you want to do something.” He leaned back. “I fear it’s too late to really do something.”
Georg answered without hesitation. “We want to contribute. For the families who’ve lost their breadwinner. For your newspaper. For something. We can’t just live our lives and do nothing at all.”
Maria added, “We thought of funding the studies of a few orphans. It’s something lasting.”
Viktor studied them carefully. “That’s very noble. Truly. But before I accept anything, you need to understand what you're agreeing to. Any donation goes into a collective pot. We decide democratically what happens with it. It might help the families of the fallen—or the imprisoned. It might support the newspaper. Or it might buy weapons, if it comes to that.”
He leaned forward. “If it ever comes out that you donated, you could be interned. If revolt or weapons are involved—death.”
The words landed heavy, but neither Maria nor Georg flinched.
Georg reached into his coat, his fingers steady despite the heat in his veins—though he could feel his pulse behind his ears, same as Maria. Without a word, he placed the envelope on the table.
Maria met Viktor’s eyes. “Tell us how to send more. This won’t be the last.”
Viktor’s voice softened. “Can you send money to Czechoslovakia? Maybe through one of your companies? Most of us are there now.”
“Yes,” they said together.
He gave them the necessary details, scribbled quickly on a scrap of paper. Then he stood.
“The longer you stay, the more dangerous it is.”
Georg rose. “We know. That’s why we came quickly—and why we’ll leave quickly.”
Viktor walked them to the door. There was a pause.
“I fear we won’t see each other again. Or not for a long time,” he said. “Maria—it’s always a pleasure. And Georg… take care of her. And your children. I wish you all the best.”
Their eyes were glistening as they shook hands. No promises, no goodbyes. Just a firm clasp, and understanding. Maria wanted to tell him to be careful, but the words felt ridiculous—how careful could one be in a time like this?
Then they disappeared into the Vienna dusk.
That same evening, 24 February 1934, Vienna
They had loved each other with the same intensity as during their honeymoon—but now with the fullness of knowledge: of each other, of themselves, of the world they had chosen to live in. Georg had been absolutely burning with a completely new kind of passion, a light in his eyes she had never seen before.
And Maria knew, with her whole being, that tonight she had made love to that Georg von Trapp—the one who had once disobeyed orders to sink the Léon Gambetta because he had decided it was right, to alleviate or lift the blockade. The man who had once acted on his conscience rather than blind loyalty. The man who, when the time came again, had done just that.
She turned to him, her voice low, but clear.
“I was just bedded by the Georg von Trapp who chose what was right, not what was expected. The man who disobeyed orders, who chased the enemy because he knew it had to be done. The man who fought for something more than duty.”
He was lying on his side, half-draped over her, his fingers threading slowly through her hair. At her words, he nodded, very slowly. He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was something quieter, sadder, and prouder all at once.
“And you’re the only one who ever did,” he said. His hand caressed her cheek, slow and reverent. “The only one who ever met that man in bed.”
She didn’t answer at first—just looked at him, letting the weight of it settle between them.
But he added, gently, without bitterness, “I think … when I went home on leave… it was always the officer. Shaved, polished, in full control. Not the one still catching his breath after breaking ranks.”
Maria leaned in and pressed her forehead to his. “I have always loved that man. I love all of you, but that man is the one I always admired the most. And I am so glad you showed it to me.”
“And you,” he said, voice rough, “are the only one who ever saw that man—and told him it was good.”
He brushed her cheek with his thumb, his eyes burning with quiet clarity. “You’re also the only one who ever shouted at me when I deserved it—and brought me back to myself. Twice.”
He kissed her, long and slow.
Maria understood what he meant—more deeply than words could say.
They lay in silence for a moment, breath slowing.
Then Georg said, voice quiet but certain, “We have to plan for the unexpected. If something happens… if we’re caught…” He didn’t look away. “I hope the older children will stand by the younger ones.”
Maria didn’t hesitate. “They will. They know what it means to lose everything.”
“But they must know, clearly, that we never stopped thinking of them. That everything we do is because we want them to live in a better country. A better world.”
She nodded, tears welling but not falling. “Then we’ll make sure they do. We’ll tell them. Little by little. Enough for them to carry it forward if they have to.”
And outside, Vienna exhaled into another tense night—but inside, in Elsa’s borrowed guest room, two people lay side by side, bare in more than just skin. Ready. Finally ready.
He kissed her then, gently at first, but with that same unspoken intensity he had brought to every decision that had ever mattered.
No more words were needed.
This time, they didn’t chase each other.
They met in the middle.
3 March 1934, villa Trapp
“We should include Dollfuss’s list of victims in our letter to London,” Georg said, his voice even but firm. “With our remarks.”
They all sat around the table, each of them writing part of what would become a long, carefully constructed letter to Henry, Liesl, and Louisa—one meant to carry not just news, but meaning, warmth, and warning. A drawing by Florian, signed proudly with his full name, would be tucked inside, along with a smiling doodle from Karoline—a touch of hope, a lucky charm against the dark. Anna added a few lines in her careful handwriting. It mattered that everyone contributed, even the youngest.
There was love in the gesture—but also preparation.
Georg and Maria’s section held instructions: what to do if the worst happened. The same instructions they had already shared with Friedrich, Kurt, and Brigitta—who would soon turn eighteen herself.
They reminded all the children that the family’s account in London had already been arranged to give the older ones access, originally to help Louisa—but now, possibly, for something graver. It would allow them to survive, and support the younger siblings, if necessary.
The Austrian account, by contrast, was insignificant. Georg and Maria considered it lost. If their quiet transfers from the shipping company in Linz to accounts in Czechoslovakia were ever traced, it would be enough to sink them.
Martha and Gretl were visibly shaken. They were too young to take part, too old to be kept in the dark. Fear had a shape in their eyes. Maria and Georg held them close.
“We’re sure nothing will happen,” Maria said gently. “We’re just being very, very careful. Dollfuss wants peace now. He got what he wanted—they’ve draped the monument to the Republic in their flags, crutch cross and all. They want people to believe it’s over. That there’s nothing left to fight for.”
“But some people are still fighting,” Friedrich said, quietly.
“Yes,” Georg said. “But not everyone can fight the same way.”
Friedrich picked up the final envelope. “This is one thick letter. That official address on the front… it feels strange.”
“As long as it gets me through the doors of the British Embassy,” Kurt replied, slipping it into his coat. “And into the right hands. That’s all that matters.”
For a moment, there was silence in the room. Not of fear, but of something like reverence—for the task, for each other.
Then Maria said, softly but clearly, “Let’s get this to London.”
15 March 1934, House of Lords, London
The heavy oak door of Henry's office creaked open as his trusted valet entered, holding a silver salver. Two envelopes lay upon it.
“A dispatch from the Foreign Office, my Lord,” Davies announced, his tone carefully neutral, “and a letter bearing a Czechoslovak stamp.”
Henry's breath hitched. He recognized the official crest on the larger envelope instantly. The other, smaller one, with its slightly smudged postmark, sent a different kind of chill down his spine. He waved a dismissive hand at other papers on his desk. What has happened? Something has happened. And it’s time to learn what. He hadn’t even looked at the morning papers, except for a perfunctory look that had returned no useful piece of information.
“Leave them, Davies. Thank you.”
Davies placed the salver on the mahogany surface and withdrew quietly, sensing his Lordship's profound unease.
Henry remained still for a moment, his gaze fixed on the two pieces of paper as if they held the power to shatter his world. The embassy's envelope felt weighty with potential sorrow: the family hadn’t trusted the post for their letter. The other… the Czechoslovak stamp. Who could be writing?
He reached for the embassy letter first, his fingers trembling slightly as he broke the seal. The crisp, official stationery felt cold in his hand. He unfolded the thick pages, his eyes scanning the familiar handwriting – Maria's strong, looping script interspersed with Georg's more precise hand; his siblings by marriage adding their reports in hurried handwriting; the little ones saying hello in their own innocent way. The relief that washed over him upon seeing their words was quickly tempered by the recounting of the brutal events of February. He learned of the fighting in Vienna and Linz, the government's harsh crackdown, and the fear that had gripped their household. He read of Georg and Maria’s choice. Of Friedrich and Kurt’s feeling of impotence. Of Brigitta’s lucidity, of Martha and Gretl’s fear of losing their family. He smiled at the younger children’s innocent greetings.
He read on, his heart clenching at their contingency plan for the children. The weight of their trust in him and in the older ones, should the worst happen, settled heavily on his shoulders. But there was nothing he could do. If the worst came to happen, they would all step in.
Only when he had absorbed every detail of his family's letter did his gaze fall back upon the second envelope. The Czechoslovak stamp. It felt less formal, the paper thinner. He carefully slit it open and unfolded the single sheet. The handwriting was unfamiliar, hurried but legible.
My Lord Aldbury,
I trust this reaches you safely. Given your well-known interest in Austrian affairs, particularly your family connections in Salzburg, I felt it my duty to provide you with a more independent account of the recent tragic events. The official narratives circulating are, shall we say, heavily curated.
The situation here remains tense. While the armed conflict has subsided, the government's grip has tightened considerably. Civil liberties are curtailed, and the suppression of dissent is widespread. The human cost of the fighting, particularly among the working-class population, is significant and often understated in the controlled press. There have been executions, and internments.
I have witnessed firsthand the desperate resistance in Vienna; have been under the cannon’s shell myself, seen how even the gravely wounded were dragged to the courthouse to be sentenced. I am able to estimate the real loss at about 1500 to 2000 deaths, and about 5000 wounded, thanks to my direct involvement and to sources from socialist and communist side.
The Social Democratic Party’s direction is in exile in Czechoslovakia, and I regularly visit them to be able not only to gather information, but also to send my correspondence without any censure or without harming anyone. I trust you might find ways of informing your family in Austria about the content of the present letter that might reach them without exposing anyone to undue risks.
Your concern for your family is understandable. While Salzburg was spared the worst of the direct fighting, the political ramifications are being felt throughout the country. The future remains uncertain.
I remain, Sir, your most humble and obedient servant,
George Eric Rowe Gedye
British Correspondent
Henry stared at the letter, his initial terror giving way to a grim understanding. Gedye's words confirmed his deepest fears – the official accounts were likely sugar-coated, and the true picture was far more unsettling. Gedye’s estimate went far beyond his family’s impression.
He ran a hand through his hair, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. Everyone’s eyes were on Hitler and Mussolini, for the foreign affairs implications that their policies brought with them. No one cared for the small Austrian republic. Not even the BUF had deemed Dollfuss worthy of funding.
He would not see his darling Elisabeth until at least 4:30 PM, and he had no idea about Louisa’s university schedule, but they needed to talk as soon as possible. The sisters had to read the letters first; then they would discuss what they could do. And he would be there for them.
He called the townhouse, and asked the staff to tell Lady Aldbury and his sister to cancel any engagement for the evening and to wait for him on account of urgent matters to discuss. He knew he risked making them worry, considering the delay in news from the family in Salzburg, but he could not risk them making plans for an outing with the gang, or for some sophisticated soirée.
“Mrs Parker,” he said to the butler’s wife, who usually answered the house phone, “make sure Lady Aldbury and Miss Louisa do not leave the house this evening. And… if anyone calls, say we are not receiving visitors. Not even Muriel.”
A pause.
“And if the paperboy has already dropped the Times, take it away.”
It would be a long day at the House of Lords.
Liesl and Louisa’s relief was huge at reading that not even Kurt had gotten into trouble, but the news that the family was now financing the only resistance against both Dollfuss and Hitler filled them with both admiration and dread.
Louisa, always very lucid, suggested that they do something. “We could begin by inviting everyone to a dinner, and tell them all. Ask Simon to write a piece. People should know, at least. I realise there is nothing we can do if the population has accepted the status quo and even those who would lead the resistance are abroad. But knowledge is power. And we owe it to those who gave their lives for it.”
Liesl picked up the newspaper. “Especially since, apparently, Mussolini met Dollfuss yesterday. This has to mean something, probably an alliance against Hitler. Look! Henry, didn’t you read the papers today?”
“I got the letters early in my day, focused on what they meant, and was then swamped with other matters. I am sorry, darling.” He sighed. “And you know that most lords believe, and I quote, ‘They’ll sort themselves out, those little Alpine squabbles.’ When your father sank our ships in the Mediterranean, they were of a different opinion, I must say.”
The following week, the gang was invited to dinner at the Haverstones’ townhouse. The setting wasn’t formal — the staff were discreet, the lighting low — but the invitation had made it clear: this wasn’t a merry gathering. Only Ricky and Marianne knew what it was all about, but the topic was a surprise for Doris, Muriel, Clara, Freddie, Bea, Len, Simon, Ned, and Pip.
So, after dinner, Liesl explained what they had learned through their correspondence. She also gave Simon a typewritten abridged summary of what her family and Gedye had reported. “I know you’d rather write satire. I will give you leave to joke about Dollfuss’s height. But write about this. Just… leave my family’s name out of it. Speak of generic reports from eyewitnesses who contacted you.”
Simon took the bundle, his expression unusually serious. “You’re sure about this?” he asked, his eyes scanning the typewritten lines, then meeting Liesl’s.
“I am,” she said quietly. “They want people to know. And I think they need to feel we haven’t forgotten them, or those who stood up for something better.”
There was a moment of heavy silence. Then Pip, the most light-hearted of the group, whistled low. “I thought we were gathering to gossip about Henry’s boring committee or Freddie’s hopeless love life. I didn’t realise…” He looked genuinely rattled.
Freddie nodded solemnly. “It’s a different sort of war, isn’t it? Not one with declarations and trenches, but it’s still people being crushed.”
Marianne leaned forward. “Is there anything else we can do? Apart from Simon’s article?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Louisa. “I don’t think anyone here can spark a revolution. But Simon’s writing can reach more people. And maybe—just maybe—there are others who’ll take notice, or who’ve been waiting for someone else to say it first.”
“I might know someone at the Observer,” murmured Doris, sipping her coffee thoughtfully. “If they can’t print it outright, they could tuck it inside a piece about continental instability. It wouldn’t be loud, but it’d be real.”
Clara tapped her fingers nervously against the table. “Do you really think we should meddle? What if it gets traced back?”
“It won’t,” said Liesl. “Simon knows how to be subtle. And the reports come from... anonymous sources. Austrians who saw too much.”
“It’s not meddling,” said Ricky, who had been silent so far. “It’s remembering. Someone has to do it. Henry and I do as much as we can in the House of Lords, but it’s not enough.”
Henry stood then, glass of port in hand. “May I?” He waited for nods. “To knowledge, to courage, and to doing what one can — even from far away.”
“To our family, and to all families involved.” Louisa added softly.
The glasses clinked. It was not a toast of joy, but of resolve.
Later, as the guests filtered out into the cool London night, Simon lingered behind, still clutching the envelope.
“I’ll be careful,” he promised Liesl. “But I won’t stay silent.”
“This is… damning. But no one’s going to touch it.”
“Not even the Telegraph?” asked Pip.
“They’ll dilute it to a paragraph under Continental Tensions. Something about social unrest and ‘unfortunate loss of life’. If they even run it.”
Henry, who had stayed mostly silent through the evening, now leaned forward, his fingers steepled. “Gedye’s done what he can. He’s too valuable to ignore, but too honest to be allowed space. That’s why he wrote to me. He wants this out.”
“Then we leak it,” said Marianne.
Simon chuckled dryly. “To what? The Spectator? The Times? They all think Dollfuss is a buffer against Hitler. They’d rather not look too closely.”
“The Manchester Guardian,” murmured Doris. “They’re the only ones who might consider it.”
Henry nodded slowly. “I know someone. I can write tonight. And if they refuse—then we go to the Americans. Gedye writes for the New York Times, too. If we have to smuggle the truth sewn into someone’s coat, we’ll do that too.”
Louisa reached for the port. “So, we smuggle the truth. That’s what it’s come to.”
“There is just one complication,” announced Henry. “Gedye’s political sympathies are definitely leftist. This will not help. You all must know that. Frankly, I am even surprised he wrote a lord. One of these days people will really think I am a Red Lord.”
“He might have noticed that our family is not involved with the regime at all. Or, who knows, maybe he met Kurt and heard it all from him. I would not rule it out,” said Louisa.
May 1934, villa Trapp
Elsa and Max’s visit was a shock — not just unannounced, but unthinkable, given the distance the family had kept from friends and relatives over the past year.
And yet, here they were. “A few days in the green and on the Alps. May is always a charming month,” they had said with brittle smiles. But their faces betrayed no delight — only foreboding.
Georg and Maria braced for the worst. If Elsa and Max had come all the way from Vienna to speak in person, it could only mean trouble.
That evening, once the little ones had been tucked into bed — and Brigitta, Martha, and Gretl were settled in their favourite spot for eavesdropping — the customary “chat and cognac” turned sour within seconds.
Elsa began, voice clipped. “I won’t touch on your distance from most family and friends since last year. I know when a match is lost. Nor will I mention your visit in February. I don’t want to know. But when gossip like the one that reached Max and me starts to circulate, it’s my duty to warn you.”
Georg and Maria exchanged a glance. Had someone from the company in Linz let something slip?
Max took over. “I thought Kurt had come to his senses after we spoke — you know, after that party last summer.”
What? What had Kurt done? Maria froze. Georg felt the blood rise to his temples.
Elsa went on. “Everyone’s talking about Frau Rettenhofer and her handsome young lover. Everyone. Apparently, she’s so far gone she now travels to Vienna regularly — officially for her women’s group tied to the Front. But in truth, to meet with your son Kurt, who conveniently now has a flat in the city and no longer needs to exploit the family estate.”
Maria froze. Georg’s jaw tightened.
“I’m sorry,” Maria whispered. “What is Kurt… doing?”
“That’s what we’re asking ourselves,” Elsa replied. “One can forgive a youthful misjudgement — a summer evening, a foolish impulse. An eighteen-year-old boy as handsome as his father, and a disappointed young wife. But this has gone on for months. People have started connecting the dots — in Aigen, Salzburg, and Vienna.”
“She’s married,” Georg said quietly. “To an official of the Front.”
Max gave a weary nod. “And the man likely knows. Or soon will. I don’t need to spell out what that means. You must tell Kurt to end it. Apologise to Rettenhofer, claim it was a boy’s mistake. We all remember what it meant to be nineteen.”
Maria’s voice was barely a breath. “I can’t believe he would…”
“You must believe it. He did,” Elsa snapped. “He wasn’t discreet about it at the party — you had already left. The others found it amusing. Except Friedrich. Apparently, he’s inherited your… moral backbone.”
Georg’s fury sharpened. “The others knew?”
“Georg, everyone knows,” Elsa replied. “That’s why we’re here. Because this could blow up — not just in gossip columns, but in offices. And the fact that you refuse to be the Front’s darling family? That makes you a target. You’re not untouchable anymore.”
She took a slow sip of cognac, gaze steady. “We thought you should hear it from us, before someone less... charitable tells you.”
Max gave a dry, mirthless laugh. “Well, after this, I doubt you will still be considered for the role of the poster family.”
Georg locked the study door behind them and moved to the sideboard, retrieving the bottle of whiskey Henry had brought in August and two glasses.
Maria hesitantly asked, “Georg, do you think it’s really the right time to drink?”
“It is. We’ll be sober enough to talk about what we must. But there are things I wouldn’t mention unless we’re both at least tipsy.”
She laid a hand on his forearm, with tenderness. “We’ve been married for nearly eight years. We love each other. I don’t think we need whiskey to speak openly.” She paused a beat. “And I’d rather start with Kurt. What could possibly have happened?”
He poured the whiskey anyway, handing her a glass.
“Kurt is nineteen. Hot-headed, romantic, stubborn, affectionate—he’s got all of us in him. Myself, Agathe, and you—who have been in his life for eight years and taught him how to express his affectionate nature. If a woman showed him attention, it’s no surprise he responded. Why he kept seeing her, though… I have my suspicions.”
“What he’s done is a terrible sin. Relations outside marriage, with a married woman!”
“Darling, I doubt Kurt finds that line of reasoning very compelling. If he’s done this, he’s probably convinced himself there’s some… moral loophole.” He held up his glass. “Which is why I’m asking you to drink. I have to explain something I’ve never told anyone.”
They clinked glasses. Maria’s expression was wary. “Tell me, Georg. Please.”
He reprised, “When a boy starts noticing women, it’s not exactly easy to rein it in.”
“Especially when society doesn’t want him to. It practically rewards boys for acting on it—especially when you were young. I know, Georg.”
“Yes, and I know you’ve always found that unfair. You’re right. But when I was his age—” He sighed, and looked genuinely embarrassed. “—oh, it’s awkward.”
“Georg, if you’re trying to avoid saying the word ‘brothels’, I’ll save you the trouble. There, I said it. You’re welcome.”
“That’s not what I was trying to say, actually. I never went to those places. I found the idea of paying a woman deeply distasteful. Which is… oddly enough, one of the many reasons I became friends with Max, along with our interest in naval engineering.
He introduced me to widows. Disappointed wives. Women who—well, let’s say they provided my education. Eventually even some unmarried high-society women sought me out. The bold ones.”
Maria blinked. Then guffawed, completely unladylike.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but—Georg! You, the gallant idealist, refusing to pay, and ending up as a… romantic volunteer? It’s absurd. And dashing in a… terrible way.” She kept laughing, and teasing him. “But I must admit, your experience does show, and I am somehow glad for it. Not that this stops me from feeling jealous.”
“That is not the reaction I expected.”
She reached for his hand and held it. “But think about it—it’s almost poetically ridiculous. And I knew, of course, that you’d had a past. It was expected of you. I just never imagined it was so… curated. I’m relieved you never chose the other path.”
“I wanted to tell you this because I understand, from painful experience, the pull Kurt might be feeling.
If I were his age again, you wouldn’t get a moment’s sleep. That’s how hard it is to resist.
But I also know how quickly it all becomes messy. People form attachments, even when there's no love. My last… ‘friend,’ before Agathe, felt something for me. And I felt some affection, not love.
But the day I met Agathe, I ended it. I didn’t know what would happen with her, but I knew what I wanted. I’ve never lied. I’ve never gone behind anyone’s back. I did not risk unwanted consequences, ever. I wasn’t moral by your standards, but I had my morals.”
Maria was on her third whiskey, and her voice was softening, both because of the alcohol and because of what he had mentioned. “I understand. I do. But with Kurt… if it had been a girl his age, someone he truly loved…” She sighed. “I might even have understood. He’s such a sweet boy beneath all that bravado.”
“And so is Friedrich. Who, by the way, doesn’t agree with what Kurt has done. He’s chosen a different path. What bothers me is that all the older children seem to have known something.”
“The children have met in secret for years—since the times you were… less present. But they love each other, and talk to each other, regularly. I truly don’t think they knew this. Not the full extent.”
“Even if it meant undermining someone like Rettenhofer? You do know how the children despise that entire crowd. Kurt most of all. It might have made the whole thing seem more dramatic. A political gesture.”
“What may have happened that night is one thing—maybe they drank, maybe it felt like rebellion. But an affair? That’s different. I can’t imagine the others condoning that.”
As it happened, they found out the following day from a rather worried Brigitta—found with her hands on the phone receiver—what the siblings exactly knew.
“Kurt was seen by Martha, Gretl, and ANNA with Frau Rettenhofer walking towards the hunting cabin, this summer.”
Georg stood very still.
“I see.” He blinked. “Well. I’ll have a word with him. Soon.”
“Thank you for trying to talk sense into him, dear. He must have found a way to make it sound innocent. Or lied to you.” Maria tried to be more diplomatic. She then turned to Georg. “I doubt Anna was made aware of the details, darling.”
“And you don’t think there’s any harm in a child seeing her brother walking off into the woods with a grown woman? A child who still dreams of balls and princesses?”
“The problem isn’t Anna. If they saw, others did too. And they will talk.”
Brigitta explained, “That’s why I was trying to call Kurt and Friedrich. He must not come home alone. Better if Friedrich meets him at the central station.”
Maria and Georg exchanged a worried look.
Georg asked, “You think Rettenhofer would retaliate?”
“Papa… you get possessive if a man so much as compliments Mama.
Rettenhofer has been made a fool of. Publicly. And he’s not alone—he has friends. Uniformed ones.
They might not do anything clever. But they might do something violent.”
Georg narrowed his eyes. “Would Friedrich be enough to protect him?”
“It’s not about strength. It’s about not being alone. Bullies pick off stragglers. That’s why I called them both. I told them: stick together. Which is what we have promised to do as siblings, forever.”
18 May 1934, Salzburg Central Station
Friedrich spotted his brother’s brown-red hair among the crowd from Vienna and walked briskly toward him, hand raised in greeting.
“Kurt, I would always protect you. You know that. But this was stupid, really stupid. And you lied to us.” He led him towards the Bahnhofsgaststätte to buy a beer.
“Friedrich, not everyone wants to pine platonically after a girl for years, up to the inevitable disappointment because you are not a member of the Front and thus seen as an unreliable man with something to hide. I told you that already.” Kurt waved for two Augustiners and tossed a few coins on the counter.
“Was your stunt meant to give me advice on how to proceed, then? To become the lover?” Friedrich’s voice took on their father’s clipped, ironic tone.
“Friedrich, I don’t want to give you advice. I know you have your beliefs. I respect you very much. But I wanted Ilse, and she wanted me. And we are… were happy. I suppose now it’s over, for real.”
“I am sorry, Kurt. It’s not for me to judge whether you developed feelings or not. Although you’ll have to admit that you didn’t sound like a man in love when you came back from the garden at Leopoldskron. More like someone who had a good time, and made fun of a politician. ” He clinked his bottle with Kurt’s. “Which might be the only positive side of this huge mess.”
“Don’t let our parents hear you use such words, you perfect son!” Kurt elbowed his brother. “Anyway, I don’t see any hats with chicken’s tails on it around here. I’d say we are safe.”
“Maybe they are at home, discussing with Papa how to paddle you. Maybe at the Summer Solstice bonfire, with the entire Heimwehr and all traditional corps attending and clapping.”
“As long as they are not throwing me in the fire, I might even agree to that.”
“You know, I never would’ve thought our childhood fights were training for adult life.”
“Friedrich, are you sure you’d sacrifice one of your precious and expensive medicine books to knock down an opponent? I still have the scar from one of your Greek grammar books.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of using my bag with the books in it as a… sort of sling? Without throwing it? Only to hit them? That is, if we need to fight.”
They finished their beer while they waited for the train to Hallein, and talked of university. They took the train, and alighted in Aigen.
They went to the gate to their estate, entered, and were stopped by a voice.
“Look who has come home. Just in time for a friendly chat. Ilse at least told me the truth about your train schedule.” Rettenhofer was surrounded by four Heimwehr militants in full regalia, whereas he only wore his crutch cross pin.
Kurt could not resist. “You know, you really should take a page off the Landwehrschützen in Wals, or any other historical corps. Better uniforms, the lot. Your hats and feathers are a national embarrassment. Speaking of Schützen… isn’t it too late for Maypole celebrations, and too early for summer solstice? What is the joyous occasion?”
Friedrich rolled his eyes. Was it really necessary to make them even more furious? But, as usual, Kurt had a great sense of humour, so in the end he snorted, steeling for the inevitable backfire.
Rettenhofer announced solemnly, “I suppose you are the one who has been engaging in a disgraceful pursuit that shows a clear lack of moral rectitude and respect for the marital bond. For the sake of all involved, and to avoid further unpleasantness, would you please confirm that you are the gentleman who has so grievously erred, and not the other?”
Friedrich hoped against all hope Kurt would at least keep it short, simple, and devoid of any cheekiness.
Alas, Kurt answered, “I have been engaging in a lot of pleasantness with a disappointed young wife who dreamed of love and passion, and instead got a husband who finds shouting orders and repressing— not just his marriage but also the rest of society —more exciting.”
“So, you are not just a sinner. What are you, a coveted Bolshevik?”
“If I were a Bolshevik, I would have brought Ilse to Russia already to live with her there. Don’t be stupid, Rettenhofer. What are you going to do now, arrest everyone who is not a Front member?”
“What I am going to do is this,” and he stroke a blow directly to Kurt’s stomach. The four Heimwehr militants also made to hit Kurt, but were hit first by Friedrich’s bag with his university books, suddenly turned into a swinging pendulum of academic fury that knocked them down, and got their ridiculous hats flying on the meadow.
Kurt struck back with a powerful hook against Rettenhofer’s jaw, and then it was chaos, with Friedrich and Kurt fighting ferociously against five men, fists and kicks both making their appearance. Bodies tangled, limbs flailed, and the idyllic setting of the Trapp estate's gate became a stage for brutal, close-quarters combat. The Heimwehr, initially confident in their numbers, found themselves surprised by the tall, strong, and hot-headed brothers' coordinated, if desperate, resistance.
“You were going for five against one, you bastards,” said Friedrich, while trying to knock out one of the Heimwehr militants.
“Your brother was going for a married woman. I’d say we are even,” one of the militants spat out while kicking Friedrich on the shin.
The scent of overturned earth and bruised grass mingled with the sharp intake of breath and the metallic tang of a split lip. The sounds were a brutal symphony: the impact of a fist, the ripping of fabric, the heavy thud of a body hitting the ground.
The brawl was soon a messy stalemate, a tangle of limbs and desperate energy. Rettenhofer, his face contorted with a rage that transcended his earlier pious pronouncements, suddenly broke free and called for “Winkler”, apparently one of the Heimwehr members. A glint of steel flashed in Winkler’s hand – a small, black pistol appearing as if from nowhere, shattering the illusion of a 'gentlemanly' confrontation.
Friedrich saw it first. He grabbed his bag and Kurt, and yelled, “Run. Not in a straight line. And as fast as you can. To Hans’s cabin, maybe.”
They were already a few metres away from the group as they heard the first shot.
“Shit, shit, shit. Henry had warned me of this.”
“Kurt, run, don’t talk.”
Another shot, then another.
Then—luckily—they saw Hans with his gun, slowly aiming at some point behind them. He was a scary sight, for sure, probably the image of what he looked like when he served on their father’s submarine, or on some ship.
His tall figure and his booming voice stopped the group from their chase. “I’m sure the Captain and Baroness von Trapp won’t appreciate armed thugs trespassing. But they will appreciate me stopping you — by any means necessary.”
As Kurt and Friedrich continued their flight towards the villa, Rettenhofer answered, “I think there is a misunderstanding. We just want to talk to the Captain… and his son.”
“I do not ‘misunderstand’ the sound of a shot. As I am sure you wouldn’t, if I were to shoot you with my gun.”
Hands raised in a gesture of surrender, they moved slowly towards Hans. “Really, it just all got out of hand. Those young men are violent! We need to talk to the Captain. Could you please… announce us?”
Hans looked at them. “Come back another time, dressed as civil members of society, cleaned up, and unarmed. And announce yourself to the butler, or the housekeeper.”
Friedrich and Kurt entered the villa in terrible conditions: dirty with earth, grass, and blood; their suitcases forgotten near the gate, Friedrich’s bag with the same stains as well.
They barely made it through the door before Georg intercepted them, while Maria kept the children in the sitting room, not wanting them to see things they were better off not seeing. They had heard the shots, and especially the little ones as well as Martha and Gretl were scared.
Georg’s stare was petrifying. “Go into the study, immediately,” he ordered. “Maria, join us in about ten minutes. You know what to bring. Brigitta will take care of the others.”
Georg slammed the door behind him, then looked at his sons, hands behind his back. “Now, take off your clothes. Down to your undergarments.”
The brothers looked at each other, completely lost.
“It was not a suggestion. It was an order.” This was the Captain speaking, not the father. “You clearly have been in a brawl, and someone has shot, many times. Friedrich, you want to be a doctor? Then learn. I have to assess the damages. Your adrenaline might keep you from feeling a wound or a break.”
They started to remove their clothes, slowly, the pain already making a few movements difficult.
When they were finally in their undergarments only, Georg started assessing them, and asked Friedrich to do the same with Kurt and himself. He looked, prodded, and poked.
“You’ve both taken serious blows. Nose and lips broken. Bruises everywhere. Black eyes. Kurt, those punches in your stomach… Friedrich, what did you learn at university about them?”
“That there might be some internal damage. And we have to be vigilant. To run to the doctor if he feels sick.”
“Good. And…” he touched a spot on Kurt’s left shoulder, a shallow groove, “what’s this?”
“OUCH!”
“A bullet grazed you. At least, it looks like the only damage they did by shooting. Now, sit down. When your mother enters, you can cover yourself a little with your discarded clothing.”
He turned, and prepared four glasses with some brandy. “I cannot say you deserve this. Not knowing how this must have happened. But you are still my sons, and you just defended yourselves, so…”
He poured two glasses, and gave them to his sons.
“I suppose Rettenhofer has come to share his opinion about your romancing his wife, Kurt. Brigitta was right. Bright girl.” The sardonic amusement vanished from Georg's eyes, replaced by a cold, burning fury that erupted. “What in hell possessed you?”
“I… I… liked her, you know, and we started talking… and we kept seeing each other…”
“And you thought this would go exactly… where?”
“I didn’t think of that!”
“I know very well you weren’t thinking. At all!”
Friedrich, mortified, tried to intervene. “Papa, if I may… Henry had a theory about all this.”
“Oh, so you two talked to Henry and not to me!”
“Yes, well, he knew from the start, you know.” Georg’s stare grew even colder, but Friedrich continued. “Anyway, he said I put romance on a pedestal, and Kurt tried to turn a moment of poor judgement into a noble quest… to make a woman happy.”
In that moment entered Maria, who heard Friedrich’s statement. She had brought disinfectant, bandages, and water. “And what did Henry mean with that sentence? I want to hear the truth from you. Both of you.”
Kurt volunteered. “Henry thinks that Friedrich’s choice to wait for the wedding night for pretty much anything beyond a kiss is his way of seeing romance, and that mine to turn something… less pure in romance is, well, sort of equally romantic. We are both dreaming of being white knights.”
Maria looked at Friedrich with tenderness, then turned to Kurt with something like sadness in her eyes. “Your father told me my words would get wasted on you, and explained me why. but I will say them anyway. What you did counts for two serious sins. Relations outside marriage, and with a married woman besides! And it’s certainly not what we have been trying to teach you. You don’t have to reply. I just want you to think about it. And I hope you will repent and confess.”
Georg added, “To this, we must add the entire scandal you brought upon yourself and, indirectly, upon us. No discretion at all, people gossiping everywhere. I doubt Frau Rettenhofer herself will be happy with the aftermath of this. But she is equally guilty, after all. One might even say she is the main culprit: apparently, she began all this, and she is the married one, not to mention a few years older than you, Kurt. But she is not my daughter; you are my son. And you have been reckless. We will apologise to Rettenhofer, and I will tell him it was a boy’s folly, of course. But I am seriously angry, Kurt.”
Maria had started cleaning and disinfecting Friedrich, who was hissing from the pain. “You are the future doctor, you tell me what to do,” she said.
Georg informed her, “Maria, Kurt was grazed by a bullet. Could you please disinfect him? Left shoulder. And Friedrich, have a look at it with me.”
Maria’s expression was almost defeated. “Kurt, did you taunt Rettenhofer?”
“It was Rettenhofer and four Heimwehr militants.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“OF COURSE I taunted him. Them. All of them. I mean, those uniforms…”
Georg intervened. “Your allowance is suspended. I will pay for your expenses directly for a very long time. And that’s just to begin with.” He turned to Friedrich. “What about the gunshot wound?”
“Alright, Kurt, sit still. Papa, hold the lamp closer, please. The track is clean, thankfully, no obvious entry and exit. See how the skin is just torn along the surface? That's a graze. But we need to be sure there's nothing lodged inside.” Friedrich gently stretched the skin around the wound, looking for embedded fibres from clothing or any metallic sheen.
Kurt complained. “I am starting to feel the pain. OUCH.”
Georg commented, “Adrenaline wearing off.” Then, with his experience of battlefield injuries commented, “Keep a sharp eye for anything that shouldn't be there. Splinters, bits of cloth... infection loves to take hold in such things.”
Friedrich then asked Maria for tweezers and probed very gently with a clean finger or the blunt end of them, asking Kurt about the sensation. “Does it feel gritty? Any sharp points under the skin?”
“No.”
Friedrich then directed his mother. “Gently clean the entire area around the graze first, to prevent dragging more dirt into the wound. Then, carefully swab along the track itself. Be thorough, but don't scrub too hard.”
Then he checked for nerve damages. “Kurt, can you lift your arm straight up? Now, rotate it at the shoulder. Any sharp pain beyond the surface wound? Any weakness? Tingling sensations?
Kurt, although in pain, was able to lift his arm, and move everything. He denied feeling anything than pain.
“You were lucky, boy,” commented Georg.
Maria was still upset by the shooting. “Darling, surely you must agree that shooting was excessive. We can and we will apologise to Rettenhofer, whatever it might bring. But a pistol aimed at a nineteen-year-old?”
Georg nodded. “I will surely address it. I suspect he will appear at the villa soon.”
Maria then announced, “Time to set the noses and lips, boys.”
Georg added, “Friedrich also suggests we should check on Kurt regularly. He might have internal damages. I am going to prepare some remedies for the bruises, unless our doctor has ideas.”
“Apart from arnica, or cold compresses, not much.”
Georg sighed, and told his wife, “Maria, we will alternate checking on Kurt, and on Friedrich too. As for you two,” he turned to his sons, “as soon as everything is cleaned, bandaged, and set, you will go to your rooms and rest. And call us if you feel unwell. You are not going anywhere this weekend.”
The next day, in the late morning, a visit was announced. Franz knocked at Georg’s study, interrupting his and Maria’s work on matters concerning their company.
“Captain von Trapp, Herr Rettenhofer is here. Alone. He wishes to discuss a few important matters with you in private. Should I…?”
Georg sighed. “Send him in. Maria, I fear he won’t want you here. I’m sorry.”
“I understand. I’ll go check on the children—see whether they’ve worn out the nanny or each other.” She patted his hand and shoulder before leaving.
Rettenhofer entered in civilian clothes, though his Fatherland Front pin was displayed. One eye was bruised, his lip stitched. He removed his cap, but the gesture lacked genuine humility.
“Captain von Trapp. Thank you for receiving me.”
“Herr Rettenhofer. Please, sit down.” Georg kept his tone calm, already anticipating what the man wanted from this visit.
“As you might imagine, I’ve come to speak to you about your son. Kurt. Handsome, tall, strong fellow. In other times, I’d have said you should be proud of him. Alas, as you now must know, he has disregarded the sanctity of the home—my home—and of marital fidelity. He’s strayed down a path deeply opposed to our Christian values, and he has corrupted an otherwise exemplary spouse.”
Georg’s eyebrow twitched. “I apologise for all of it, Herr Rettenhofer. I was only recently informed of this… youthful folly. He just turned nineteen in March; he’s still a boy—hot-headed and romantic. My wife and I have spoken sternly to him. He is ready to apologise, repent, and desist. He’s also willing to apologise in person.”
“That won’t be necessary. As you say, he’s nineteen—still under your authority. I trust your word. And I trust you’ll keep him in check.”
Georg nodded, but his tone shifted. “Herr Rettenhofer, since we’re speaking of apologies and wrongdoings… I’ve been informed that you felt entitled to enter my property with four armed men, stop my sons—even Friedrich, who has done nothing to you—provoke a fistfight, and even fire a pistol at them. I was under the impression that the Fatherland Front stood for order, the protection of private property, honour, and Christian values. So tell me: how exactly does your behaviour align with your principles?”
“Captain von Trapp, if you were a member of the Fatherland Front, I might be able to discuss such matters with you more openly. Alas, it’s been brought to my attention that your entire household wants nothing to do with the Front. There’s only a single donation from last year—from you—to the Heimwehr, intended as a precaution against a German invasion.
Speaking of which, the men who were with me were Heimwehr members. In uniform. And your son openly taunted them, then spoke of ‘repression of society’ when commenting on our politics. Damning statements, before five witnesses. As you yourself said: he’s only nineteen. So—we will forget it ever happened. All of it. The conversation, the brawl, the shooting. We’ll only remember your apologies. And we’ll forget Ilse, your… gardener? Groundskeeper?—telling us to get off your estate. Agreed?”
Georg realised he’d been cornered. He also knew he had to talk to Kurt—about his temper, about finding purpose, about the direction his life was taking. Perhaps it was time to involve him in the company in Linz once he finished at least another semester at university. He had planned to, eventually, just as he would with Brigitta—if she managed to be admitted to the Technische Universität despite the new laws.
“Agreed,” he said finally. “As gentlemen, and as Christians.” He extended his hand. Rettenhofer shook it, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“Kurt, you know how much your mother and I love you. We’re worried about you. I understand you’re different from Friedrich, and I respect that. You’re more impulsive, less reserved. But you’re also a sweet boy—sometimes I still think of how you used to seek out Agathe’s and Maria’s hugs all the time, you know… still do with Maria, even though now you’re taller than me. I’d hug you too, but I fear I’d only make things worse.”
Kurt chuckled, despite the pain. “Yes, I’m definitely not in any condition to be affectionate with anyone. See? I am most definitely not touching a woman for a while!”
“KURT!”
“I’m sorry, Papa. I’m also trying to steer clear of Florian and especially Karoline. Try explaining to a two-year-old that she can’t touch me. Anna’s driving Resi mad instead—she keeps stealing ice for Friedrich and me, saying she’s ‘one of the ladies of the house’ and therefore allowed.”
This time, Georg chuckled. “That sounds just like her. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I’m glad you and Brigitta are helping with the repairs around the house. But I’d also like you to get involved in our shipping company in Linz. It would give you purpose—and help keep certain payments away from curious eyes. Brigitta too, after she’s completed at least two semesters—if she gets in. You might even end up working there once you graduate. Would that make you happy?”
Kurt considered it. “As long as we can focus on the technical side of things. We’ll be engineers, not accountants.”
“You’ll still have to look at the accounts from time to time.”
“I know, I know. As for Brigitta… I actually know how to get her in!”
That sentence prompted one of the usual family gatherings—minus the younger children.
“So,” announced Georg, “Kurt says he knows how to get Brigitta into university.”
Brigitta’s face lit up. She nodded—clearly, she already knew.
Kurt revealed his idea. “Brigitta’s fiancé—a theoretical English lord who’s a friend of Henry—needs a wife who can help him with their estate. So, she’ll study logistics and management, with her fiancé’s authorisation. And, of course, under the protection of her fierce brother—my humble self!”
Maria chuckled. “Is that your idea or Henry’s?”
“Mine, Mama. But I know Henry will absolutely love it!”
Georg wasn’t entirely convinced. “Are you telling me Henry is going to forge letters and invent a new lord? Are you sure about this?”
Friedrich would have laughed, had his body not begged him otherwise. “Oh, Papa… you have no idea!”
26 July 1934, villa Trapp
“Georg, I have to risk your wrath by making light of what happened, but… if this is how Hitler intends to take over Austria, it’s never going to happen. It was a rather amateurish coup.” Maria knew if someone could comment sarcastically and not risk much, apart from some rolling of the eyes, it was her, with her sweet tone, and with the power she held over her husband’s heart.
Likewise, Georg knew how to rebut, knowing his wife would accept the strike without getting offended. “It was an amateurish coup. However, they have been more present all over the country than rebels against both Dollfuss and Hitler. So, I wouldn’t be too sure. Support for Hitler might grow, and we would find dormant National Socialist groups in every town.”
Kurt saw another detail as most important. “Well, I have to say, the National Socialist didn’t just cut a pathetic figure, but also killed the bastard. Probably one of the first things they have done yesterday, from what I gather.”
Brigitta added, “Well, far from me to cry for Dollfuss, but… there is still his successor, and the Fatherland Front still stands. And his successor has your name, by the way. I’d hate him even more for that, truth be told.”
Georg and Maria could not react. They were petrified by the nonchalance with which they were talking of the assassinated chancellor.
Kurt continued, “Maybe in a year or two, I’ll shoot Schuschnigg myself. And you can lead the revolt, with our friends and England backing us.”
Friedrich, Martha, and Gretl cheered.
Georg felt a wave of cold climb his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat, or the memory of the war, or the sudden, unbearable thought that one of his might one day pull the trigger in a dark hallway.
Maria’s throat tightened. It wasn’t just the words—it was the ease with which they said them. The lack of fear. The spark of something darker in their eyes. She then regained her faculties. “Children. Rejoicing at death is never right. Even if you disagreed with him—even if you hated what he did—you do not celebrate someone being shot in his own office like an animal.”
Of all people, Friedrich stood up and answered. “We didn’t comment on the manner of his departure from this world. We simply stated that they lost their leader, and that we think it a positive development. And that we would consider it a positive trend if all the future chancellors of the Front would just leave their office this way.”
Kurt didn’t back down. “He was an animal. And a hypocrite. And you saw what his people did to Friedrich and me. And to others. They had it coming.”
Georg looked at him. “That’s vengeance talking. Not justice. You don’t get to decide when someone should die. Not even in your head. And if you do—if that becomes who you are—you’re no better than the people you hate.”
Kurt stood up, challenge in his eyes. “Is that what you told yourself after torpedoing enemy ships during the war?”
Georg felt wounded by that. “What I told myself was that I was protecting my country from the enemy, and keeping the routes to deliver food to Austria free. I was protecting myself and my crew, so that we could all come home. I picked up those who could be saved, every single time. I never once hated my enemy. Former enemies are now friends and family.”
Brigitta suggested, “Papa, we believe you. We know how exceptional you and Mama are. Exceptional, that’s the key. We might not hate our enemies, but we sure hate that we have had to increasingly deal with difficulties due to those fucking bastards. Mussolini, Dollfuss, Hitler. We don’t care. We are young people. We only wanted to live our lives happily and undisturbed, and we are denied that. You cannot ask us to be as poised as you two are.”
Gretl added cheekily, “We’d much rather be ourselves. Expressive, yes. Exceptional? No thanks. Two words: pinecones, frogs.”
Martha spoke her mind, too. “This is such a beautiful country. So is Italy. So is Bavaria. Hungary, probably, too. But we cannot just live our life and enjoy life in these countries, because of people like them. I agree that shooting people is barbaric, but… you'll have to forgive my rather restrained outpouring of grief.”
Maria tried to stay calm. “You hurt us, though, when you sound like people with bloodlust. I understand what you are saying, and it’s probably easier for us to speak about Christian piety than for you. We will surely talk about it, your father and I. But please stop, stop with those words. Hate is poison. Hate is what made it possible to ban Slavic languages in Istria, what makes it possible to discriminate against Jews.”
Georg added, his voice oscillating between hurt and furious, “And even if you one day had to take up arms, as I did—never, ever let yourself be swallowed by hate. Do it to save yourselves, to protect your families. But when it’s over, put down the guns and go home. Go where your heart is.”
The couple wasn’t convinced the children would listen to what they had said. It was true: they all felt like they had their lives uprooted, somehow. Only Liesl had managed some semblance of normality in her life up until months after her wedding.
They could only pray for them, and try to keep familial harmony at home, and hope to be able to carve out moments of peace despite everything. Until the next disrupting event, of course.
Peace was no longer a given. It had become something to engineer, like a fragile structure held together by shared songs and dinner table rituals. Until the next breaking news. The next poster on the wall. The next name whispered with fear.
A few days later…
“Well, I’d say we arrived just in time, Elisabeth. What a cheerful welcome. A failed coup d’état here in Austria; meanwhile, Dollfuss’s widow was holidaying at sea with Mussolini’s wife, both dictators’ brood playing together. Charming. And Mussolini moved the troops to the Italian-Austrian border to threaten Hitler. Then Germany, clearly jealous—and desperate to show the world that they actually can pull through a Putsch—purged its paramilitary and political structure. As a result, Hitler is now both Chancellor and President.” Henry looked rather exhausted, beneath his typical humour. Knowing that he, Liesl, and Louisa had been travelling while all these things happened had upset him. He downed his whiskey—freshly brought from England—and threw his head back, to lean on the back of the divan.
“I think nothing else can happen, Henry. There is a limit to the number of events that can happen. I believe. Well, I am not sure, but it seems unlikely that there will be another coup these days. The next months would seem too boring, in comparison with these few days,” Liesl half-jested, half-hoped.
“What can I say, I am just glad I moved to London!” commented Louisa, who had been warned not to rejoice for any death, not even in jest.
Maria asked, “It is my duty, as the Baroness and the mistress of the house, to tell you that Elsa and Max want us to go to the Festival again. To be once again there to make a stand against National Socialism, and to meet conductor Toscanini. Kurt will stay at home even if we decide to go; I don’t need to explain why.”
Liesl remarked, “Toscanini is an antifascist. I think we could go to support him.”
Brigitta had an idea. “Do you think a red dress like last year would look good on me?”
Louisa winked. “We’ll sure make it look good. And brush up our Italian.”
Henry groaned, “Just as I thought my German was improving… Georg, your Italian is as good as Elisabeth’s, I suppose.”
“Oh, Papa is modest. His is far better.” Georg smiled at his daughter, thanking her for the compliment.
“Right then,” Henry muttered, “if Toscanini’s in town and the world hasn’t ended yet, I suppose we may as well dress nicely, speak Italian, and pretend civilisation is holding. How very Austrian of us.” He poured everyone some whiskey—even a sip for Gretl and Martha. Then continued. “Remind me to write to my aunt,” Henry said. “She asked whether Vienna or Salzburg in summer would be good for the nerves. I might suggest Cornwall instead.”
Elsa and Max, it must be said, finally got their perfect picture: the elegant, respectable, and proper presence of the Trapps—Georg, Maria, Friedrich, Louisa, and Brigitta—and the Haverstones at the Festival. Red dresses and all. Perhaps it helped that the sarcasm flowed in English and Italian, not in German or French. Appearances, after all, were still everything. And as long as conductor Toscanini was smiling, they smiled, too.
Toscanini even laughed, as Liesl, after checking her phrasing with all Italian-speaking siblings and discreetly with her father, told an ‘interesting story.’
“Mussolini and his driver are out in the countryside, when suddenly a pig darts across the road. The driver can’t brake in time and hits it. Mussolini tells him, ‘Don’t just sit there. Go knock on that farmhouse and explain what happened—they’ll understand.’
Half an hour later, the driver returns with his arms full: hams, cheeses, a bottle of wine under his arm. Mussolini stares at him. ‘Why are you carrying all that? What on earth did you say?’
And the driver shrugs, ‘I just said, “Good evening, I’m Mussolini’s driver. I killed the pig.”
As Toscanini, the Haverstones, and the children laughed heartily, Maria looked at Georg, lips pursing. Her husband’s jaw was unusually tense.
“Do you think we could laugh, just this once? Maybe skip Communion until the next confession? And pray harder for peace the whole month?”
Georg’s guffaw was the answer. Maria joined him, a second later.
For 1934, it was practically peace.
Chapter 24: Will my weary soul find release for a while? (1935-1937)
Summary:
From 1935 to 1937, we follow the beloved Trapp family as they navigate a world on the brink of change. While quietly supporting the resistance, they find joy in family growth, celebrate significant academic triumphs – including two new doctors and two engineers – and witness a royal coronation that makes waves even in Salzburg. Yet, the encroaching shadows of global conflict, from Germany’s rising power and Italy’s expansion to the unfolding Spanish Civil War, bring a chilling reality closer to home.
Amidst these external pressures, Georg and Maria's bond deepens through unexpected personal trials. Can hope truly be enough in times of such profound uncertainty?
Notes:
The title is a verse from the song "...And Then There Was Silence" by Blind Guardian, a powerful song reflecting on the tragic end of the Trojan War.
Content Notes:
Foreshadowing: Look out for subtle hints of what's to come.
Mild Content Warning: This chapter contains distressing situations, including a severe infection, and discussions about the dangers of childbirth and potential infertility.
Features an original Italian joke about Mussolini.
Historical Accuracy: The story of Prontosil, one of the first antibiotics, is authentic. Its production by Bayer in Germany meant dealing with the National Socialist regime to obtain such vital medication.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
May 1935, Villa Trapp
It was probably selfish of them, to ignore the constant bad news from Germany and Italy, and to resist in a quiet manner to the Austrian regime, simply continuing their financial support to those in exile. But they had to cope. The past two years had been hard; they tried to enjoy what life could still offer, and take advantage of Austria’s political standstill. They sought closeness again—as a family, even with young Connie, who had married a Fatherland Front militant. Her choice, after all. Liesl hadn’t come back from England for the wedding: distance made the excuse believable. The others had gone, and tried to keep a low profile.
Then they had all gone back to their private life, where they supported each other, from afar or by meeting at their home in Salzburg.
It was a warm, breezy afternoon. Maria lay on a blanket in the garden, hand absent-mindedly resting on her swollen belly, her legs across Georg’s lap as he sat beside her. He was massaging her ankles and keeping one eye on the younger children playing nearby, while also watching Kurt and Brigitta, who were elbow-deep in the bowels of his Steyr XX.
“Kurt, you’re covered in oil again!”
“Well, that’s no surprise. Remember when we tried servicing one of Papa’s barges in Linz? Come on—take the wrench, Gitti. Your turn. And don’t strip it.”
“Trottel,” she muttered in jest, miming a kick at his shin.
Georg and Maria exchanged a glance—equal parts exasperation and pride. The two had grown so much, working hard on their studies and already involved in the Danube shipping company. A bit of grease and laughter only made them more loveable.
“I really ought to get another car,” Georg sighed, theatrically. “I’m getting too old to carry your mother when she’s preg— OUCH!”
Maria had swatted him with her foot, smiling at her husband’s cheek. He answered by grabbing her ankle first, then by brushing her shin.
“Don’t worry, Papa, we’re nearly done!” Kurt called out, his voice slightly strained under the car.
Nearby in the shade, Martha looked up from her book, sitting cross-legged with Gretl.
“Well, if you have to buy another car, at least it’ll give some work to the factory.”
“I just hope I’m not the one crossing the road when someone takes it for a test drive,” Gretl muttered.
“We heard you, Margarethe!” Kurt called out without missing a beat.
Fifteen minutes later, the engine roared to life—its first breath in days, and a deeply satisfying one.
“Yay, Gitti! Done it!”
They killed the engine again to clean up. Kurt held up two spark plugs, grease smudged on his knuckles, and handed one to Brigitta.
“Here. For luck. We each keep one… souvenir, lucky charm, take your pick.”
Brigitta took hers, brandishing it like a sword. “Knights of the Order of Mechanics and Logistics!”
“For our country, and for glory!” Kurt joined in, crossing his plug with hers.
Anna and Florian ran over, little Karoline toddling behind them. Anna and Florian grabbed two spark plugs left.
“Swords! Let’s fight for the king! For the land! For the mountains!”
They started mock-fighting, giggling. Karoline picked up a part too—something heavier than a spark plug, and parroted, “Fight!”
Kurt and Brigitta burst out laughing and bent down to play along—until Georg, already striding over, cut the fun short.
“Take those away, please. Karoline’s definitely too small, and even Anna and Florian could get cut on the porcelain.”
Grumbles followed, but the tools were packed up.
Later that day, the announcement came:
“Papa, Mama, we’re taking it for a spin!”
“We might try to beat the record to Hallein!”
“Just don’t speed too much,” Maria warned, barely concealing a smile.
They were both daredevils—no one denied it. Georg, too, sometimes felt the thrill of speed, but responsibility always won out. He was a father. A husband. Kurt and Brigitta… they were still writing the first chapters of their lives.
Gretl had already announced she was counting the days until she’d be old enough to race them. A good thing Martha seemed to be one of the calm personalities of the family. As for the youngest ones, only time would tell, but she had an inkling…
10 June 1935, evening, Villa Trapp
“Another one with your hair, darling,” said Georg, cradling baby Thomas tenderly before handing him back to Maria, now clean and nestled in their bed.
A knock announced the children, eager to meet the latest brother. Anna and Florian hurried inside and all but jumped on the bed, kissed their Mama, then Thomas, then their Papa. The older siblings rolled their eyes and brought in Karoline too, gently placing her on the bed and guiding her to give sloppy kisses all around.
Florian was chirpy. “Another brother!” Kurt and Friedrich smiled.
Martha and Gretl kissed the baby and their parents tenderly. “We will be an army soon,” Gretl quipped.
“The governments are trembling,” added Martha.
Then came Brigitta, Kurt, and Friedrich for their kiss, more subdued but very intimate.
Maria thanked the latter for coming from Innsbruck.
“It was a pleasure, Mama. Besides, I am gathering some experience: next year, I am going to graduate. Dr Brunner and Dr Steinberg were both very kind to me, letting me assist and learn.”
Georg smiled wistfully. “A countess, soon two doctors and two engineers, then a number of lovable living earthquakes in the middle, and a baby. We certainly are something,” and he kissed his wife.
Friedrich poured a glass of water and handed it to his mother. “Mama, drink, it’s important. You have sweated a lot, even though it went rather quickly.”
“Heavens, I should’ve studied medicine too—six years just to say ‘drink’!” Kurt elbowed Friedrich with a grin.
“You will be grateful for my six years when I have to treat your burns or when you inevitably leave a hand in a gear. Probably in one of Papa’s most valuables ships,” Friedrich answered sarcastically and returned the elbow.
Kurt was moved by their complicity. “Now I will definitely get injured, just to have you march in like a white knight and save me.” He winked. “I love you, brother!”
“I love you, too!” They laughed together.
Brigitta rolled her eyes. “How do you feel, Mama? We should probably let you rest.”
“Tired, as always. You’re a darling, Brigitta. I’d definitely like to close my eyes. Georg, will you put the little ones to bed?”
“Of course, darling, I will be back soon.” He put baby Thomas in his cradle. “Although it’s usually the older ones who cause trouble,” he said with a glint in his eyes.
“Papa, if you agree, I will just pop a champagne in the sitting room with the others,” offered Friedrich. “I’ll stay a few days, just to check on Mama. Dr Steinberg will handle the paperwork for the assistance I’m giving.”
Georg lingered a moment at the bedroom door, watching Maria with Thomas curled beside her, the others still murmuring their goodnights. Something tugged at him—no more than a thread. He smiled anyway, softly, and turned away.
13 June 1935
Georg was going to lunch with Florian and Karoline, waiting for Friedrich, who had gone upstairs to check on Maria as usual.
He saw his son’s tall figure appear at the end of the hallway—sooner than expected, walking briskly—and finished settling Karoline in her chair.
Friedrich’s voice came low, urgent: “Papa—she has a fever. High. And she’s not quite lucid. She didn’t recognise me at first.”
Georg froze mid-motion, his hand still on Karoline’s bib. He stayed like that for a heartbeat too long, then slowly dropped to one knee, as if steadying himself. The air in the room thickened. His heart pounded against his ribs, deafening in his ears. It was as if time had folded in on itself—one moment superimposed onto another. He had heard those words before. Once. Long ago. And then, death had followed.
No. Not again. Please, God, not again.
His voice came out slower than he intended. “Is it… normal? Can it just be tiredness?”
Friedrich shook his head. “No. This isn’t just tiredness. We need to cool her down immediately. And see what else we can do.”
Georg stood, the movement mechanical. Friedrich’s face was too serious, too composed—it made Georg feel unmoored.
Even Florian looked up from the table, sensing something wrong. “Is Mama ill, Friedrich? Can you help her?”
“I can help,” Friedrich replied gently. “But we’ll need Dr Steinberg. We need to act fast.”
Just this morning, Friedrich’s presence had been comforting—a safeguard. Now the same presence confirmed the worst: the weight of worry made flesh.
And Georg remembered, with icy clarity, the way Agathe had slipped away despite the reassurances of the first day.
“Friedrich, I’ll send the nanny up. Please call Dr Steinberg the moment she arrives.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Georg climbed the stairs two steps at a time, chest tight. His legs felt heavier with every step, as if some part of him already knew.
He entered the room without knocking. Maria’s face was flushed, beads of sweat visible on her forehead. He knelt at her bedside and cupped her face. Hot. Too hot.
“My love, how do you feel?”
She smiled at him, faint and unfocused. “I would like to sleep. And I feel… hot,” she murmured, voice dragging.
“Friedrich is calling the doctor, darling. You have a bit of fever. Did you nurse Thomas this morning?”
Maria blinked slowly, once, twice. “Thomas?”
Georg’s throat clenched. “Our baby, darling.”
She frowned a little. “And where is Florian?”
“Florian is downstairs, at lunch. With Karoline.”
Georg sat by Maria’s bed, holding her hand. She had drifted off, but her breathing was shallow, and her skin still too warm.
He felt utterly useless. A husband, a captain, a father of eleven, and yet here he was, powerless to lift her from the fever that had shackled her mind.
Every now and then she muttered a name or phrase that made no sense, then, she closed her eyes again, murmuring something he couldn’t understand. Her skin burned under his palm.
Georg sat frozen for a moment. Then he leaned forward, knelt by her, and cradled her hand to his lips, breathing in the scent of her skin like a drowning man gasping for air.
“You cannot leave me,” he whispered, almost pleading. “You cannot. Maria, don’t do this. I would not survive losing you.”
His voice cracked like splintering ice on the last word. His throat tightened, raw, all the memories from 1922 coming back to him. He pressed her fingers against his forehead as if they could anchor him there.
“You are my everything. Have been my everything for nine years. The children need you, too. Please…”
A soft sob escaped him, barely more than a breath. He bent low over her hand, rocking slightly, as if by sheer will and prayer he could tether her spirit to this earth.
“You are my heart. My life. You must stay.” His whispered words blurred into sobs, the sounds raw and breaking from deep within.
“You cannot leave. Not like this. Not now. Not ever.” And he let all the tears out, not caring who would see him sobbing like a child.
He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him over the roar of his own blood.
Friedrich stood at the door, pale and stricken, with Dr Steinberg just behind. They saw him kneeling, bent over her hand, murmuring desperate words as if praying at a graveside.
Friedrich didn’t speak. He simply walked in, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal.
Dr Steinberg waited a respectful moment. Then: “Captain von Trapp,” his voice was low, steady. “Let us try to bring the fever down. With your permission, I’ll examine her.”
Georg turned, his eyes rimmed red but still fierce. “You will save her.” Not a question. A command. A plea. Then softer, breaking: “Please. Do everything.”
He moved aside, but not far. He sat down on the floor beside the bed, leaning against it, her hand still in his, watching them both with a raw, hollow gaze. Like a man watching the tide draw away from a sinking ship.
The older doctor, coat still buttoned, approached the bed in long strides. “How long has she been like this?”
“She only started to seem confused this morning,” Friedrich answered. “But the fever rose quickly. I suspect a uterine infection.”
Dr Steinberg pressed his fingers lightly to Maria’s pulse, then lifted the damp covers slightly. “Yes. Likely postpartum sepsis.” He looked at Georg. “We’ll need to act at once.”
Georg just nodded. His lips were drawn tight, his posture rigid, as if absorbing every word and filing it away for later.
“Shall I prepare cold compresses? And Aspirin?” Friedrich asked, already halfway to the bathroom.
“Yes. And we’ll begin fluids—do you still have the saline solution in your kit?”
“Yes. I’ll fetch it.” Friedrich disappeared briefly and returned with his small case.
There was little talk as they worked: cooling cloths, fluids, measurements. Maria stirred faintly, murmuring again. Georg remained seated, her hand in his, silently watching the men move around her. Friedrich heard his father’s soft prayers, and for one terrifying second, he doubted himself. He was only twenty-three, a year from his graduation. He had no right to gamble with her life.
And yet—
He looked at his mother, at the sweat on her brow, at the way his father clung to her hand like a man lost at sea. He would not survive, this time.
There was no other choice.
He straightened, voice steady, heart hammering: “Dr Steinberg. May I make a suggestion?”
The older man paused, mid-preparation. “Of course.”
“There’s a new drug—Prontosil, a sulphonamide. It’s been trialled in Germany, and distribution was started by Bayer. I’ve read the papers. We could try it. We must. I’ve seen the early results. It was used last month in Berlin on a similar case. The fever broke within a day.”
Steinberg considered this, brows drawn, but not dismissive. “It’s new. And not standard.”
“Yes. But so is this chance. And we don’t have time to wait for a relapse or further complications. I wouldn’t suggest it if I weren’t certain she needs it now.” Friedrich looked at his mother’s pale face, and at his father’s pain. He saw no other option.
Steinberg looked at him for a moment longer, eyes narrowing—not in scepticism, but with evaluation. Then he nodded.
“All right. I trust your judgment. And your reasoning is sound.”
He turned to Georg. “Are you in agreement?”
Georg had been listening all along, lips pressed white, his whole body taut with terror. When Dr Steinberg asked for his consent, he hesitated a fraction of a second, as if the words were too heavy to lift. Then he nodded once, a sharp, broken movement. “Do what it takes,” he rasped. “You will save her,” Georg said—voice low, rough, desperate. It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t rational. It was the only thing he could cling to.
It would all be a challenge: finding the drug, getting it, and using it when the drug had just been released. “Munich. I will go myself, Papa. I can try the main Klinikum, or any of the other main hospitals and clinics.”
Georg looked at Friedrich with profound worry mixed with a flicker of desperate hope, and squeezed Maria’s hand harder, as if transferring that flicker to her.
Dr Steinberg nodded slowly. “You’ll need letters. And tact, or a strategy.”
Friedrich almost laughed. “I’ll say what I have to. I’ll even salute. For Mama, I’ll salute.” His voice cracked, but he stood straight. Friedrich squared his shoulders, staring into the mirror of the dresser. His reflection stared back—tall, blond, blue-eyed, the perfect image the Reich wanted.
He swallowed hard. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs. His Hitler salute would not come as a surprise to anyone. He could do this. “I have to leave immediately. I have no idea how long it’s going to take me. As for how I’ll explain it, I am going to say I am treating my mother and writing a paper about the experience, as a project for the university.”
Dr Steinberg looked at him flabbergasted. “And how do you suppose you’ll manage that?”
Even Georg felt the corner of his mouth twitch, knowing what Friedrich would say. “My brother-in-law is a master of charming, exchanging favours, and forging. We are not as good as he is, but… let’s say we have learned something.”
“Godspeed, young man. But be cautious. This is uncharted territory. And I certainly cannot be of help. You know what they do to my people across the border.”
“I know, Dr Steinberg. It revolts me to spend even a day playing the perfect Aryan student. But the stakes are too high.” Friedrich’s jaw clenched. “Besides, I’m treating a patient and documenting the experiment. Even if they found out Innsbruck wasn’t involved, what could they do? Fine us? We can afford that.”
Georg wasn't sure whether his silent nod came from genuine conviction—or selfish hope that Friedrich would only risk a fine and nothing worse.
“I’m sending a telegram to London on my way out,” Friedrich added, already turning to go. “Liesl and Louisa need to know.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
It sounded, to Georg, like the crack of a starting pistol—a race against death they had no choice but to run.
Friedrich was a man possessed. He moved with a frantic energy, grabbing his coat and a small bag, his mind already racing through train schedules and potential contacts in Munich.
The journey was a blur of steam, hurried connections, and snatched moments of anxious thought. Sleep was a forgotten luxury. His only focus was reaching the Klinikum and securing the Prontosil.
Crossing the border felt like stepping into a different world. The air was thicker with a palpable tension, the greetings sharper, the flags more menacing. Friedrich kept his head down, his invented 'university project' story rehearsed in his mind, his forged documentation heavy in his bag; his blue eyes betraying none of his inner turmoil. He offered the required Hitlergrüße with a tight jaw, the word feeling like ash in his mouth. Each swastika banner was a fresh wave of revulsion, a stark reminder of the regime he was forced to navigate to save his mother.
Munich was a whirlwind of hurried inquiries and nervous explanations. He navigated the imposing corridors of the Klinikum, his student documentation his only shield, desperately seeking a doctor or pharmacist who knew of Prontosil and might be willing to part with some. He encountered scepticism, bureaucratic hurdles, and the pervasive fear that seemed to cling to everyone he spoke to. His charm, while present, was edged with a desperate urgency that hopefully would be read as academic fervour.
The moment he finally held the small vial of Prontosil felt like a miracle, heavy with the weight of his journey and the fragile hope it represented. He paid whatever was demanded, no questions asked, his only thought to get back to Salzburg.
The return train journey was a mirror of the first, but now fuelled by a desperate hope and the precious cargo in his bag. Every delay felt like an eternity, every border guard a potential disaster.
He imagined his mother's face, Georg's worried vigil, and the silent prayers of his siblings. The weight of their hope was a tangible burden.
He arrived back in Salzburg late the next evening, exhausted and dishevelled, his clothes rumpled, his eyes bloodshot. But in his hand, clutched tightly, was the small vial that held the potential to bring Maria back.
Despite his fatigue, there was a fierce determination in his gaze as he presented the Prontosil to Dr Steinberg and Georg, the relief almost overwhelming.
Kurt and Brigitta had come from Vienna, too, their worry etched on their faces. They clapped him on his back, though, after the customary hug with all the siblings.
“Friedrich, you are a hero.”
“It runs in the family, we all know it!” said Friedrich with a tired smile.
“Liesl, Louisa, and Henry sent a telegram. They say to tell them immediately if they… need to come. We told them of what you wanted to try. I suppose we should send an answer soon, to let them know there is hope.”
“Kurt, could you please write them that I have the Prontosil and that I am administering it now? Well, Dr Steinberg officially is. Doesn’t matter.”
“Go, Friedrich!”
After a day in which Friedrich alternated between assisting his mother, tenderly cuddling Anna, Florian, and Karoline, helping with baby Thomas, and trying to support his father, Maria’s fever finally broke.
Dr Steinberg came to assess the situation and check Friedrich’s reports.
“My dear boy, not even graduated, and you already have something to submit. And it looks good, I have to say. We will need time, of course. Your mother needs time to recover. You need time to write all your findings. But I think this might be the future of medicine. And I am proud I could have you as an assistant, Friedrich. You are a good student, a good person, and your family is known for opposing antisemitism from the very beginning. I would like to have you working with me if you intend to become a general practitioner. Obviously after your hospital rotation. That leaves us probably two years’ time.”
Georg, who had barely left Maria’s bedside and whose face still bore the deep lines of sleeplessness and fear, pressed his lips together tightly before managing a proud smile.
Maria, propped up weakly against the pillows, her skin still far too pale, looked at Friedrich with shining, tired eyes.
Friedrich blushed. “I… I would love to, Dr Steinberg.”
Then the doctor made another proposal. “Now, since we all believe in the same God, I would like us to hold hands and pray together silently. For the baby, for the Baroness, and for this family. Baruch Hashem.”
Maria, drawing a shaky breath, remembered her independent readings at the Abbey. “Blessed be the Name,” she whispered. “That’s a beautiful suggestion, Dr Steinberg.” Her hand trembled slightly as she stretched it out—one to her husband, one to the doctor.
Georg caught her hand immediately, raising it briefly to his lips before lacing their fingers tightly together, as if anchoring her to him by sheer will.
Friedrich linked them all, his touch strong and reassuring between the two older men.
They prayed silently, the words unspoken but heavy with gratitude, exhaustion, and a fear that was not yet fully gone.
When they finished with a soft “Amen,” Georg stayed kneeling by Maria’s bedside for a moment longer, his head bowed, as if unable to quite let go of the prayer—or of the fragile life he had almost lost.
Then slowly, reluctantly, they left Georg, Maria, and baby Thomas to rest, Georg settling into the chair beside her, his hand still wrapped around hers even as she drifted into a deep, healing sleep.
Anna would not let go of Friedrich. She sat on his lap, arms around his neck, and kissed him in regular intervals. “You are a knight! A hero!”
Kurt winked at his brother. “Anna, you really make me jealous, you know. If you continue like this, I will only cuddle Karoline from now on!” He tickled Karoline while talking, eliciting her giggles.
“Ugh, Kurt. It’s just because Friedrich saved Mama. And because he does not have a princess to marry yet. So, I am stepping in.”
Florian swatted his older sister. “I want to kiss Friedrich, too!” Anna obviously replied, “Wait for your turn!” Friedrich simply made room for Florian on his lap, too, his detailed letter to Louisa with the medical details postponed to when they’d tuck them all into bed.
Brigitta, Martha, and Gretl could not help laughing. It was a sweet moment, despite the terror that had took over the villa just a few days ago.
“I fear Kurt and I have to go back to Vienna. We will be back soon, although we will alternate being here to working in Linz. The semester is almost over. Martha and Gretl, we relinquish again command of the Trapp siblings to you, for when Friedrich goes back to Innsbruck.”
Martha and Gretl saluted. “We accept the command, Colonel Brigitta!”
“Who decided she is the colonel? I am older!” jested Kurt.
Martha sighed. “Kurt, there can be two colonels, you know.”
Kurt showed her his tongue, immediately imitated by little Karoline.
Even in their laughter, there was a raw edge to the room — as if they all knew that winning the battle might not yet mean winning the war.
If Kurt and Brigitta had to go back to Vienna, there was a rather welcome replacement.
Elsa, Max, Constance, and Joan had come to visit Maria, reassured by Martha over the phone that they would not disturb and that the worst thing that might happen would be that they only talked to her for a few minutes.
Elsa and Max, obviously, were admitted together, and it was rather strange for the family to see them so different from their usual socialite selves.
“Here, Maria. We brought you some apricots from our estate in the Wachau. Much better than the ones that grow here, although you will hate us for saying that. Less rainy. Good soil. They will sustain your recovery, darling.”
Maria smiled tiredly, and Georg, from his chair, smiled at her instead of at the gift or at the Detweilers. She gathered her strength and mocked them for the gesture and the affectionate expressions they were wearing.
“As Max always says: I will never let you forget you did this!”
Elsa took her hand. “Maria, darling. No difference of views, no distance will ever change it. We are friends, still. And you dying, or being gravely ill… it’s too disturbing to even think of it. I don’t want to say anything, really. But now… just think of healing. Toscanini and we will wait for you at the Festival, as usual.”
Maria squeezed Elsa’s hand in return, grateful beyond words—and yet somewhere deep inside, she felt the shifting sands of the world they had known continue to pull them apart, as they had already done.
Constance and Joan, despite the political distance that had grown between them, were relieved to see Maria on the way to recovery. “We know what it means to lose someone. We are all glad the Lord spared you. And we are proud of Friedrich. Agathe must be proud of him, too, from above.”
Friedrich had been travelling often between Innsbruck and Salzburg to be able to continue his studies and to help at home, too. He popped up once again, knowing that Dr Steinberg and Dr Brunner wanted to assess the situation.
He participated in the consultation between the gynaecologist and the general practitioner, got his praise from Dr Brunner as well, then they called Georg back in.
Dr Steinberg began. “So, Dr Brunner and I both agree that, most likely, Friedrich’s intervention was decisive. We also agree that nothing stands in the way of recovery for the Baroness. Just continue with rest, some Aspirin, maybe a little movement assisted by someone since you are an active woman.”
Then Dr Brunner spoke. “However, there is something we must inform you of, based on our experience. We are sorry to speak in such uncertain terms, but you have to be warned. Sometimes, after such infections, women struggle to conceive again. Diagnostics are advancing, but... there are cases we may never fully understand. And right now, we have no diagnostic technique to tell us what might have happened in your case, Baroness. We are deeply sorry.”
Dr Steinberg reprised. “We might never know. You might conceive again, or never conceive again. You might not conceive for a while, and then you might again one day. Only time will tell.”
Maria and Georg looked at Friedrich, a mixture of worry and hope on their expressions.
Friedrich, unusually pale, adjusted his tie as if to anchor himself before adding, "I am sorry, Mama." “They are right. Maybe we will discover something new soon, who knows, and then we will learn more. But as of today, these are the only words we can tell you. I am really sorry, Mama. I am not a woman, and I am not married, but I can imagine these words might hurt you. We all wish it could be different.” His natural reserve put aside, Friedrich had been once again heroic and had addressed what he always found difficult to address with family.
Maria listened, her hand resting protectively over her stomach, and felt a sting in her heart. Georg felt for her, but—selfishly—he thought that, as long as he still had her, everything would be all right.
Dr Steinberg wanted to bring some more hope to the table. “Since you appreciated it last time, and hoping Dr Brunner will not think less of me for suggesting this… I propose we pray again silently together to our common God. He will provide for the entire family. We say Yehi ratzon, ‘may it be Your will’. You have your Pater Noster, with its fiat voluntas tua, ‘thy will be done’. We entrust ourselves to our God, united in our hope and in our acceptance of His divine plan, however mysterious it may seem to us now.”
Maria, her heart heavy but the doctor’s words resounding in her soul—those had been the words that, in the end, had led her to Georg and the children—stretched out her trembling hands again—one to her husband, one to the doctor. Georg caught her hand immediately, as usual, and squeezed it, then brushed her wedding ring tenderly. Friedrich linked them, Dr Brunner having opted out. Maria closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of Georg’s hand, the light pressure of the doctor’s hand linking them, and the silent presence of Friedrich beside them—each of them whispering their hopes into the quiet.
They prayed silently, their faith put to the test in different ways, but the knowledge of being together in this making them a little bit stronger.
When they were finally alone, Georg sat on the edge of her bed, taking both her hands into his.
“My love, how do you feel? Let it all out.”
Maria brought her hands to her belly, a look at baby Thomas peacefully resting in his crib. Then, after a sigh, she said it, blinking.
“Oh, Georg… the idea that I might never have a child from you again… it hurts, it hurts so much. The uncertainty leaves some room from hope. But it’s… hard, really hard.” Maria bit her lip, blinking more rapidly. Then, with a shuddering sigh, the tears came.
Georg gathered her in his arms and kissed her temple, letting her cry for a while. “Let it all out now, Maria.”
Then he said what he wanted to say.
“Listen to me, my love,” he said, his voice thick with feeling. “If we are blessed with more children, I will love them. If not, I will still have you—and eleven beautiful children, four of them yours, all of them ours.” He kissed her fingers one by one, as if sealing each word with a vow. “I do not want to dismiss your feelings. But just know that, as long as I have you, and as long as we are the parents of those eleven miracles, those eleven intelligent and loving creatures, I have everything.”
Maria blinked away new tears. “It’s just... we don’t know. And I am sure I will feel so many different things—”
He silenced her gently. “Then promise me one thing: never carry that pain, or any other feeling, alone. Whatever you feel—hope, sadness, anger, anything—promise me you’ll tell me. Not later. When it happens.”
“I promise,” she whispered.
“And always remember my words.”
He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. For the first time in days, Maria felt like she could truly breathe again. She thought of each beloved face: Liesl’s calm wisdom, Louisa’s mischief, Kurt’s bright eyes, the bright intelligence of Friedrich, Brigitta, Martha, and Gretl, and the dear little ones—and the ache in her chest softened, just a little.
In the weeks that followed, while Maria regained her strength, life resumed its slow, deliberate rhythm.
One afternoon, as they sat together on the veranda watching Thomas sleep in his cradle, Georg smiled softly.
“Remember what I said in Cannes?” he asked. “How being a father is a constant cycle of pride for seeing you carrying my child, worry for everything that might go wrong, and then of love for the child? I wanted to bring it up again. I know that brilliant mind of yours,” Georg said, half in jest, half in tenderness. “You could build cathedrals with your worries if you wanted to. Remember, Maria, that even if our perfect Thomas were our last child, my compensation for the loss would be never having to worry for you again.” His finger traced her profile in that manner of his that never could decide whether to steer towards tenderness or passion. “As soon as you are well, completely well, I want us to find again that joy that we always found in each other. No matter what comes of it.”
Maria’s eyes glistened, and yet she managed to convey not just how moved she was, but also her humour. “Oh, Georg. You know very well we cannot stay away from each other. I was definitely not planning on keeping you away. As we said during our prayer, we will let God provide.”
Georg found the courage to continue in jest. “Maybe this is to save you from birthing children for many years to come still. I guess I will make love to you until I have the strength to. Can you imagine how many children that could mean?”
Maria gaped at him, scandalized—then, with a laugh, swatted his shoulder, and Georg knew she was truly healing, then. “Georg, you are outrageous! But so dear!” And she threw her arms around him. “We truly need to let God provide,” she glossed, half-serious, half in jest.
By August, life seemed to breathe more easily again.
Everyone was home from university; Henry, Liesl, and Louisa came to visit as usual, bringing laughter and a welcome sense of normalcy, as well as the customary adoration for the little ones, baby Thomas first this time.
“Really, this continuous Heil Hitler here and there in Germany makes it look like a country of people calling for a taxi. I am not sure whether this is the way they want to scare the world into submission,” Henry jested in his own typical style, but everyone could see that even he was a little forced in his good humour. Mobilisation in Italy and Germany, along with the scare over Maria’s life, had taken its toll on the Haverstones and Louisa. And even as the laughter followed Henry’s jest, it carried an edge—a shared, silent acknowledgment that the world was changing faster than anyone could joke it away.
“This year, we have prepared a few jokes for Toscanini. I have one that only works in Italian, though,” announced Liesl. “Mussolini is preparing for war in East Africa—sadly, he truly is. ‘Dobbiamo andare in Africa Orientale!’ (we must go to East Africa!) Un generale lo avverte: ‘Ma non si può, ci sono i monsoni’ (A general warns him: ‘We cannot. There are monsoons there.’). ‘Li combatteremo’ (We are going to fight them).. ‘Ma i monsoni sono venti’ (But monsoons are winds/twenty). ‘Fossero anche cento, li vinceremo’ (Even if they were a hundred, we’d defeat them). A pity, that ‘winds’ does not also mean ‘twenty’ as in Italian.”
The older ones all laughed, and prepared to explain it to brilliant and lively Anna, who already could get the nuances of these jokes. She absolutely loved it, leaving everyone to wonder whether all the four youngest would be this lively and precocious.
Henry, aware that Britain would sooner or later regret not stopping Italy’s aggressive foreign politics ‘just because Italy is better than Germany’, added a sombre reflection. “As much as we joke about it, it’s hard to ignore that the world is closing in around us. Italy may be preparing for East Africa, but it’s really starting to feel like no one is safe anymore. This tension between Mussolini and the rest of Europe... it’s like we’re all living on the edge of something bigger.”
In the following days, apart from Friedrich’s new celebration as hero and from Louisa discussing with him the last weeks of study, everyone noticed how affectionate not just Liesl and Louisa were towards Maria, but also Henry. Henry was also incredibly affectionate and attentive towards Liesl.
Georg, especially, noticed Henry’s shadow of worry behind his usual cheerful, eccentric, and affectionate behaviour. So, one evening, he dared invite him for a brandy, married man to married man.
“You really were scared by what happened to Maria. Not just Liesl and Louisa. I am talking about you.” As a good fisherman, Georg threw the bait.
Henry sipped his brandy leaning on the handrail of the terrace, looking inside, where the rest of the family sat. “Yes, well… my sister is due to give birth soon, you know. Maybe the heir to Mattishall. Anyway… it’s hard to hear that things can go this bad when your sister might give birth in a few months. I am glad Louisa brought Friedrich’s report to university to discuss it. Not that we are happy to buy drugs from Bayer, but apparently, Aspirin and Prontosil may save lives, so we will do what we must. Same as Friedrich did.”
Henry was obviously used to acting, charming, lying his way in, because his delivery was impeccable. Alas, Georg knew him enough, knew his daughter well, and knew deeply what a man in love must feel. Henry’s stare had never once turned to look his interlocutor in the eye: it had stayed on his own ‘everything’, on Liesl.
Georg felt the nibble and with a sharp lift, reeled in the full weight of Henry's meaning.
“You had just decided it’s time for a baby, and you are now terrified.” He didn’t even need to ask.
Henry finally turned his head, and sighed. “I keep telling myself, ‘It can be done. I’ll just send Hitler a crate of champagne, if it needs be.’ But what if it’s something else? Then I try to tell myself that people like Friedrich, Louisa, their professors, their colleagues are working on it every day. They might come up with new drugs, new treatments. But hope feels like a rope slipping through my fingers, and despair grips me harder every time.” Henry put down his glass on the handrail, and stroke his face in distress. “I could not bear to lose her. And yet, I cannot even say ‘Let’s just not have children’. I am an Earl; I need an heir and a spare. And Elisabeth does want children. Probably more than two. Although I will definitely not want to have seven of them. I could not survive it seven times.”
Georg took Henry’s hand, a gesture of vulnerability that many men would never have shared. “Welcome to the club, my dear boy. That’s the price of love. They carry our children for months, sacrifice their wellbeing, suffer through labour and childbirth, and risk their lives. We suffer in silence, and hope for the best every time.” He put down his glass, too, and threw an arm around his shoulder in a friendly way. “But we have to carry on, thinking that so many mothers and children are alive and well. That we have hope, and faith. Agathe, Elisabeth’s birth mother, had seven children, and never particularly suffered. Let it be your hope, along with faith and progress.”
Henry hugged his father-in-law as if he were one of his sons. “Thank you, Georg. I’ll try… to think in those terms. I really don’t have any other option.”
He then pulled back, leaving only his hands on Georg’s shoulders. “You must be the first father who doesn't mind hearing a man confess he's not exactly loving his daughter like a saint,” Henry’s typical brand of humour cut through the veil of despair.
Georg could give as much as he got. “Well, you are married. Have been for almost three years. And I never said I approve of it, you rascal!”
The two men laughed in unison. Liesl and Maria were watching them from the threshold of the door.
Liesl commented, “I am rather sure this scene should have us worried, Mama.”
“Well, considering that’s Captain Georg von Trapp and Henry Haverstone, Earl of Aldbury, we are talking about, it’s either us or the League of Nations that have to worry. Probably the League of Nations, now that I think of it.”
Later, the two husbands shared the conversation with their wives, who in turn related of their own conversation. Liesl and Maria had talked about Maria’s uncertain ‘diagnosis’—possible infertility, no other evidence than what life may bring—, and Liesl confessed they had just stopped using the diaphragm to plan for their first baby. And that she felt sorry that such a thing should happen just as Maria might have finished her fertile days.
Henry, for his part, felt sorry for Maria, but imagined how Georg would be relieved deep down.
Maria, on the other hand, felt many things at once, and confessed them all to Georg.
“You see, maybe God’s plan is that we start being grandparents. We already have eleven children, and we cannot deny it’s challenging. We are privileged people, with a staff that helps us with many things. But those children still manage to keep us very busy, even the older ones who haven’t found their path in life yet. And now grandchildren may come. Maybe it was really time. Even though it still hurts.” She brushed Georg’s chest in bed and kissed him on his heart. “Or maybe these new possible tidings of war. Maybe something is coming, and having babies in the midst of it would be dangerous for everyone. Henry is not optimistic, according to Liesl.”
Georg tightened his arms around Maria. “Just promise that if you feel pain or even some anger when Liesl has her children and we don’t, you will let it all out with me in private.”
“Georg, how could I ever feel such things for Liesl and her children? I loved her even when she was a diffident sixteen-year-old!”
“Because you are human, Maria. I don’t want you to be hard on yourself. Listen, I know you love Liesl, and I am sure you will love our grandchildren by her. No doubt about it. That’s just how you are. But… things are not always black and white. Our entire story is proof of that. Accept all of your feelings, even the most complicated mixtures of them, if and when the time comes.”
Maria nestled closer, feeling herself adrift between two seasons of life—still a mother, perhaps now almost a grandmother—and yet still vulnerable as any young woman in love. She whispered, “I promise,” then fell asleep for a while, Georg’s beating heart her lullaby.
Time, like the river Salzach through Salzburg, flowed forward. Wounds closed without fully healing, and life resumed its course—even under a clouded sky.
They went to a few shows of the Festival in the second half of August, when Thomas’s birth was over two months prior, and when Maria had been recovering for almost two months. Kurt was ‘reinstated’, and there were no particular incidents, apart from a few stares from certain other members of the audience. The family simply wanted to enjoy music, society, and Maestro Toscanini, who—as usual—welcomed the Trapps’ and Haverstones’ elegance mixed with irreverence. They all needed a respite from everything: work, tragedy, politics, and they let the glamorous event and their glamourous friends Elsa and Max pamper them, and invite them.
However, even Maestro Toscanini's fiery brilliance could not entirely drown out the strange, brittle edge that had crept into Salzburg's elegance, a tension that only music could momentarily soothe.
One evening, after coming back from the Festival, Maria asked Georg to help her with the zip on her evening dress. This time, she asked him to open it completely.
He understood immediately, and kissed her on her neck while doing it, his hand lingering, his knuckles brushing her skin all the way down.
He pulled her into him with a tenderness that barely hid the desperation simmering beneath. His hands, shaky at first, found the familiar curves of her body, and as their lips met, the kiss was fierce, but it held a promise—of relief, of need, of something that could no longer wait. For a heartbeat, they simply stood there, clinging to each other as if by touch alone they could hold back the rushing tide of the world. Then, with all the tenderness and hunger of a man who had nearly lost everything, he claimed her, careful but trembling with relief.
“You are my everything,” he repeated. “You are mine. Nothing and no one is going to take you from me.”
Autumn brought not only the falling of leaves but a deepening sense of unease. Italy’s invasion of Abyssinia had shocked the world, and the League of Nations’ sanctions left the country politically isolated. Even in Salzburg, far from Rome or Addis Abeba, the newspapers —and the usual letters from London—crackled with tension—and every whisper of unrest carried an echo of things to come.
The Trapps decided to spend New Year’s Day 1936 in Vienna, as a sort of truce towards the rest of the family, and also to avoid putting more pressure than necessary on Maria, baby Thomas, and the soon-to-be-graduated Friedrich and Kurt.
On the 20th January, the Prince of Wales succeeded to the throne of the United Kingdom as King Edward VIII, following the death of his father, George V, and the usual letter from London reported about the happenings at the Haverstones’ townhouse.
Henry and Liesl, or rather Lord and Lady Aldbury, along with their siblings and friends Lord and Lady Mattishall, toasted to the modern, charming, glamorous man who had twice appreciated the Haverstones’ humour and had even come to their wedding privately. Henry and Ricky were very optimistic, and even Henry’s worries for his beloved wife’s health seemed to lessen upon hearing the news, and seeing their little Swanton nephew hale and healthy as his mother.
“God save the King,” the two couples announced. Louisa was fascinated by it: witnessing history, and being able to say “I have met the King, and danced with him.” She joined in the second toast, as a 'commoner'.
Even the Trapps were moved. All the older women had danced with the Prince of Wales at Liesl’s wedding, and little Anna had greeted him as charmingly as only a four-year-old could do.
“Maybe it’s a sign of hope,” Martha commented. “The charming prince becomes king; our two oldest boys graduate this year. Who knows what will come next.”
What came next was a second letter from London; a letter that lingered only briefly on the Italian victory at Amba Aradam and the Popular Front’s triumph in Spain.
More immediately, there was happier news. Liesl was expecting; Liesl and Henry were blissfully happy, Henry’s worries notwithstanding, and Louisa and half the medical population of London and Hertfordshire had been mobilised by the young and apprehensive Earl to prepare to assist the Countess and the possible heir—or the possible little Lady.
Maria honestly felt more warmth than envy, and she said that to Georg.
“They are young, and they want to start their family. And Liesl deserves it. Henry too. Amazing couple, they are. I am not saying I don’t feel a little bit of envy, because I know it’s there, a feeble voice telling me ‘It might never happen to you again’. But I am thinking more of how I will feel when I see you with your first grandchild in your arms, Georg. And of how I will feel when I hold it, too. Relieved, happy, and certain that we will be among the youngest grandparents of the year.”
And thus, the Trapps and the Haverstones tried to focus on their private goals, as the world watched with increasing worry—or, in some cases, with opportunism— Italy’s victory and creation of a new Impero, the Empire, as well as Germany reoccupying Rhineland.
On the 10th April 1936, Georg, Maria and the older children celebrated ten years of knowing each other. They celebrated at home, singing, dancing, and just being together. They reminisced about pinecones and frogs, about first hugs and kisses from the children, about wrong salutes and rather peculiar beginnings.
They also sent a telegram to the ‘Londoners’. The latter held their own small celebration, with Liesl and Louisa composing a sweet letter, thanking her for her love and support in their studies, and Henry glossing that “without Maria’s push to have Liesl forge her own way in life instead of waiting for life to happen to her, I would never have met Elisabeth. And, of course, her charming sister Louisa, keeper of the peace and justice in my Earldom and in my townhouse. Thank you! And also, thank you for not instilling in her some generic fear about eccentric Englishmen.”
Liesl gave birth on 4 June 1936 to a healthy boy, named George after not only so many English kings but also his grandfather, now officially named by Henry “patriarch” in the telegram that announced the arrival of the Aldbury heir—Maria and Georg’s first grandchild, and Agathe’s too, from Heaven. And obviously, of the Trapp siblings’ first nephew.
GEORGE HAVERSTONE BORN TODAY 4 JUNE STOP LIESL AND THE BOY ARE WELL STOP LIESL AND HENRY OVERJOYED STOP HENRY SAYS PAPA NOW A PATRIARCH STOP I AM HAPPY AND TIRED STOP WILL WRITE WITH DETAILS STOP LOVE LOUISA
The number of joyful tears at villa Trapp, in a student flat in Innsbruck and in a slightly bigger one in Vienna was not measurable by any human means. Further telegrams were sent to Lower Austria, whereas Kurt and Brigitta brought the news in person to Elsa, Max, the Auerspergs in town, and cousin Connie. They even squeezed in a visit to Gromi, who was moved to know that her daughter’s heritage was going on.
Tears of joy and of laughter were also poured when the promised letter arrived; a thick envelope with Liesl’s words of joy at being a mother of such a beautiful boy, and of having Henry as a father; Henry’s words of joy and gratitude that both the mother and the son were healthy, and that his divine Elisabeth was perfection; two beautiful pictures—a dishevelled Henry in shirtsleeves embracing Liesl as she held the baby, and then a more composed portrait of the trio with the baby—and finally, Louisa’s account.
Dear all,
I daresay you have already read the parents’ letters. So here follows a faithful account of what transpired behind the scenes of George’s birth.
As you know, Henry had long pestered a good portion of the medical population of London and Hertfordshire, and had also enlisted me—a humble fifth-year student. The official explanation was to ensure the succession to the Earldom was properly witnessed and safeguarded, but we all know our dear Henry: for all his eccentricity and bravado, he was, in truth, dreadfully anxious for his Elisabeth. (One day I will start calling her ‘Elisabeth’ too. I swear the man refuses to call her Liesl even when it would be much simpler. I’ll just leave this here.)
This led to a rather crowded birthing room at Haverstone Hall, of course, filled with several general practitioners, gynaecologists, a few midwives, and my humble self, brandishing Friedrich’s report on Mama.
My first observation to my soon-to-be colleagues was that, if infections remained one of our principal concerns, perhaps assembling a multitude was not the most prudent course.
I learned that people do not appreciate directness, especially in Britain. I probably should have noticed long ago, but I still had the naïve idea that, in a professional setting with high stakes, people would let go of the long prologues and the indirectness and let plain speech prevail. Alas, no.
Henry, poor soul, had his first nervous collapse upon hearing my comment, but I settled the matter by shouting at him not to alarm my sister. (There are reasons why I love him almost as if he were my own brother.)
At any rate, while respecting the grand English tradition of circuitous communication, we managed to discuss academically every conceivable contingency and remedy—all while one of the Hertfordshire midwives delivered sotto voce indictments against “high-and-mighty folk with high-and-mighty names.”
I did help a lot, in the end, and learned from nearly all the present professionals—except for the few who disapproved of women in medicine. As it happens, nature must have been on women's side that day, because those few inexplicably found their cars mysteriously filled with snakes, spiders, and frogs.
Henry and Liesl, of course, wept for joy, and I cannot blame them. I was (and remain) beside myself with happiness, to see them so radiant, so young, so beautiful.
It feels strange, becoming an aunt.
It seems but a moment ago that I was contriving mischief with insects and amphibians; and now, I am an almost-doctor and aunt to a perfect boy with dark hair.
It feels like the end of a chapter I hadn’t even realised was closing.
As for the boy’s hair—I am not sure whether it’s Haverstone hair or Trapp hair, in case you were wondering. He does look more like his father at this early stage, and I don’t think he will be blue-eyed. Liesl is thrilled: she says she would love a miniature version of her beloved husband, but I told her, “You just went through thirteen hours of labour, and you want the child to look like Henry?”
Henry, in turn, threatened to wait impatiently for the day I fall in love with one of my innumerable courtiers. He must require a new occupation, for it shall be a very long wait indeed.
That is all, I think.
Sending you all my love, and a hearty toi toi toi to Friedrich and Kurt.
I look forward eagerly to seeing you all here in Hertfordshire in August, as promised.
Yours ever affectionately,
Louisa
Gretl and Friedrich were hysterical with laughter. “Oh, heavens, Louisa will always be Louisa.”
Kurt, Brigitta, and Martha were snickering, too. “We are never going to let Henry forget any of this.”
Friedrich piled it on. “We will quote parts of the letter for years to come!”
Only Anna seemed to be more interested in the most important thing of it all. “We are all aunts and uncles now! Even Thomas! Do we have to do anything particular?”
Georg and Maria mussed her hair. “No, darling, apart from loving your nephew as you do everyone else in the family. And maybe be a good girl.”
Anna thought about it for a while. “Even if George is going to be an Earl one day? Nothing particular?”
Friedrich threw an arm around her. “That’s going to be Henry’s and Liesl’s job, not ours. But being kind and affectionate to him will definitely help. We can set an example.”
Florian remarked, “George is going to play with Thomas a lot. They are only a year apart!”
July was Friedrich’s month. He was solemnly proclaimed Doctor Medicinae, and even Anna, Florian, and Karoline behaved during the proclamation. Only Thomas was left outside with the nanny, but at least he had come, on Friedrich’s explicit request, to get his customary kiss after the proclamation.
Georg and Maria squeezed hands, tears once again in their eyes. “This 1936 is turning out to be such an important year for us. Grandparents, our first doctor in the family, and soon our ten-year anniversary!”
“Congratulations, Dr Friedrich von Trapp, our dear boy,“ said both parents hugging and kissing their son just before Anna and Florian jumped in for their own hugs, Karoline and Thomas lined up under the nanny’s strict control.
Kurt and Brigitta were next. “Hey, the next ones are you two. And Louisa, of course. Who knows, maybe we’ll manage London by then!”
Martha and Gretl mocked him. “Our school friends are asking whether they can choose to be visited by you.”
“Oh, dear! It has been a while since I had to deal with older schoolgirls running after me!”
“And you enjoyed every single minute of it, Friedrich,” jested Kurt.
“Poor Friedrich, I remember him being rather embarrassed, in truth,” rectified Maria.
They spent one evening together in Innsbruck before going back to Salzburg. Friedrich would work at the St. Johanns-Spital for his rotation come September, and therefore would come home: he would move to a big room in the guest wing, to avoid being disturbed or disturbing, and also to symbolise his relative independence.
Maria and Georg were discussing Friedrich’s new life in front of some coffee, when Maria was suddenly curious.
“One would have thought you would rather stay in Innsbruck, where you had friends you were constantly out socially or hiking with. Why back to Salzburg?”
Friedrich’s expression grew sadder. “I have friends there, it’s true. Some of them are from Salzburg, though. And there were also… moments I would rather leave behind.”
“Oh, Friedrich, I am sorry. You never confide in us.”
“I confided in Kurt, and partially in Liesl and Louisa.”
Georg looked at his son. “Women’s trouble, then. It’s endearing that you talked to Kurt about it, seeing as it seems like you two have different views on the matter.”
“To be honest, our differences have more to do with… the selection process and the courtship, we could say, than with the rest, Papa. We are looking for the same thing, in the end. And we envision the same kind of love, and of marriage.”
“Friedrich, do you want to talk to your father? I would not be offended,” offered Maria.
“There is nothing to talk about, Mama, really, but thank you. Sometimes things are just not meant to be.”
Meeting the Haverstones and Louisa at Haverstone Hall was special, this time.
Liesl was radiant, holding her beautiful 2-month boy. “They all say I did my duty by birthing the heir immediately. It is so strange to hear people talking in those terms. This is first and foremost my dear little boy.”
She handed the boy to her father, saying “Isn’t he a miracle? Isn’t all this a miracle?”
Georg let out a tear while he was looking at the baby. With experience, he kissed him delicately on his cheek. “Hello, George. We have the same name. Welcome, I am your Opa! And this is your Oma.” He handed him tenderly to Maria. “Hello, George! I am your Oma!”
Liesl had a request. “Always talk to him in German. I will do the same. I want the children to grow up as we did. His heavenly Oma will approve, too.”
The baby was then passed to the numerous aunts and uncles, with Louisa supervising the operations and trying to find a solution to get Thomas to kiss George.
Henry, meanwhile, approached Georg with “You didn’t tell me what to expect. Becoming a father. I do not think it’s fair, Georg. If there is anyone who is prepared for this, it’s you. And you let me just become a father without telling me that everything changes.”
“Why should I ruin it for you? Discovering it by yourself: that’s the beauty of it. So, out with it, dear boy.”
“Well, it’s incredible. And I have now decided that Elisabeth is not just my beautiful love. She is divine. Only a divinity can do what she did.” He had anticipated the use of the term in his letter, but he hadn’t explained why.
Georg let out a tender belly laugh. “Oh, boy. Welcome to the club of the besotted husbands and fathers, then. Although I am rather sure if I ever called Maria ‘divine’ she would first get angry, then probably have me visited by Dr Freud or even by a psychiatrist.”
“You should not have told me, dear patriarch. Now I am going to ply you with alcohol until you call her ‘divine’.”
The two men guffawed heartily, their wives admiring them from afar.
And as the family watched how incredibly tender Henry and Liesl were with George—holding him, caressing him, kissing him tenderly—as they enjoyed being all together, or meeting the gang, or the Swantons, the clock of history continued moving on, with the Spanish Civil War starting as Friedrich graduated, and still going on in August.
October was a month of celebrations.
The 10th was the tenth anniversary of Georg and Maria. It was true that there had been an anticipated celebration at Haverstone Hall, to have the entire family with them, but they also organised a lunch for the family on Sunday, the 11th. And, of course, a romantic evening for the couple alone on Saturday, with dinner and a room at the Österreichischer Hof, like ten years prior.
Then, just a little over a week later, came Kurt’s graduation as a mechanical engineer in Vienna, and once again Georg and Maria felt proud of their children—of him.
Friedrich had always been a sweet boy in the usual meaning of the term: a reserved but affectionate gentleman. Kurt… was not reserved, and when Maria hugged and kissed him after the proclamation, he started covering her in kisses in the most expansive way, as if he were a child and not a young adult.
“I would have never managed it without you, Mama. Papa, I love you too, and you motivated me just as much, but you know how much Mama—formerly Fräulein Maria—worked with me to get me to study.”
Maria was laughing at Kurt’s unreserved affection, and so did Friedrich, while Georg wore that peculiar expression he assumed when he didn’t know whether to join in the general amusement or to worry about propriety.
Not satisfied, Kurt lifted her up as if she were a girl, to the laughter of his siblings and the bemused stares of the other families—who gaped at them as if they were aliens.
In a way, they were.
Amongst people who had not a single word of criticism against the regime, the Trapps' quietly principled distance made them conspicuous. It was also why Kurt was leaving Vienna with a broken heart—just as Friedrich had once left Innsbruck—and likely Brigitta would soon follow.
The exuberance with which Kurt celebrated masked the melancholy he would never voice aloud, especially not here, in the open, and especially not to parents who had never quite learned the words boyfriend and girlfriend.
The year ended with the abdication of King Edward—naturally a topic of much discussion, given the family’s personal connection. Henry and Liesl commented that perhaps love really did conquer all, and even Georg and Maria found it difficult to condemn a man who gave up a throne for the woman he loved.
Their understanding of the full picture was limited, of course. Perhaps it was better that way—for now.
Far more exciting was the build-up to the upcoming coronation. The Trapp siblings—and naturally good old monarchist Georg—were thrilled that their Liesl would be present for such a historic moment. The king had changed, but the preparations remained grand, and so did the family’s anticipation.
Henry and Liesl sent pictures of their fabulous attire before departing for Westminster Abbey. Louisa, not to be outdone, had teamed up with the staff to secure a prime viewing spot for the procession. Only the nanny and essential staff stayed behind with little George, cuddled earlier by his proud and nervous parents—and his thoroughly amused aunt. They all later regrouped to listen to the BBC broadcast together.
Back in Austria, the rest of the family did their best to tune in on May 12th.
“Maybe they’ll announce when they perform the homage!” someone would say every half-hour. Even Georg caught the enthusiasm of his adolescent children, and Maria watched him fondly.
She did, however, feel compelled to remind them: “Darling, the Austrian radio probably won’t give us every detail.”
On the 13th, they swept up every newspaper they could find—Das Kleine Blatt offered the best coverage—and, of course, they kept them all. Anna took them to school, where she gave an impromptu lecture about her favourite sister, the Countess, who had knelt with her dashing husband before the new King—who, incidentally, shared her father's name, and a Queen who bore her sister’s.
The entire town of Salzburg retold the tale of Anna’s lecture and of the Salzburger Countess for weeks. Then the expected thick envelope from London arrived, and Maria half-expected the Salzach valley to burst from anticipation.
The photos were dazzling. Henry wore a full-length crimson velvet robe lined in white silk, with three bars of ermine on the cape, a coronet of silver gilt adorned with eight silver balls alternating with pearls, and his peer’s uniform beneath. Liesl was radiant in her own crimson velvet robe, an elegant court gown, and a coronet with silver balls and pearls on alternating tall and short spikes.
They wrote, with wry humour, about the weight of the robes, the discomfort of coronets, and the shared struggle of managing their trains.
“Liesl was sure she’d trip like she did on that Grünstein hike,” Louisa declared in her notes.
The letters were detailed and moving. Henry admitted to feeling a deep awe when kneeling before the King, and both were relieved that the homage went smoothly. Liesl wrote of the solemnity, the soaring music, and the nearly tangible weight of history within the Abbey’s ancient walls.
Georg was nearly in tears. His monarchist heart—and his love for his daughter and dear son-in-law—converged in a storm of emotion. Maria gently hugged him when she noticed the twitch in his jaw.
“Save the tears for the next wedding, darling. Come on.”
Anna repeated her lecture at school, this time invited by the director to present to the entire student body. Teachers helped display her souvenirs while a long queue of pupils admired the photographs and clippings. She was praised for her language skills and her knowledge of history and customs. For a day, she almost was Liesl.
Again, the town buzzed with talk. Children and teachers carried the tale home, and soon people came knocking at the Trapp villa under the pretext of renewing old friendships—or pretending to need business advice—just for a glimpse. Political tensions were briefly forgotten in the face of such first-hand gossip.
Maria began to worry they might soon receive a visit from Chancellor Schuschnigg himself—and idly wondered whether refusing him entrance would cause a scandal.
Louisa, too, graduated as a medical doctor in July 1937, and the family anticipated their journey to London just to be present. Louisa, like her siblings, credited her mother, “not only for the support when I was still in school, but for your political ideas.”
Henry had already lined up a job at the London Hospital for her, where she could rotate between internal medicine and research.
“Let’s just say that Lady Aldbury has discovered a sudden interest in organising charity events for the London Hospital, and they have discovered that Dr Louisa von Trapp has already co-authored a paper.” Henry could barely conceal his amusement, and so did Liesl, and the family was left wondering which one had truly spoken to the hospital this time.
Louisa, Liesl, and Henry were thus able to come to Vienna for Brigitta’s graduation as logistic and managerial engineer in October 1937. George was left with the parents, and the older children all partied in Vienna almost like in old times.
Two years filled with personal triumphs had lulled them into a dangerous sense of security.
Edward, now the Duke of Windsor, visited Nazi Germany with his wife, and their trip was highly publicised. Their behaviour, so clearly supportive of the regime, made Henry and Liesl feel ashamed. What they had previously excused as a king’s legitimate choice in an intricate situation now looked unmistakably like early support for the dictator from Braunau am Inn. It was a bitter disappointment, especially for two people who had once counted the charming prince among their acquaintances.
The Spanish Civil War was discussed more openly within the family, and their support for the Republicans was clear—not because Henry, Liesl, or Georg had become republicans or leftists, but because they opposed Franco. The involvement of Germany and Italy worried them deeply. Early in the year, they had even tried to raise awareness about the horror of the bombing of Guernica, though such discussions increasingly bordered on dangerous ground in Austria, unlike in Britain.
There wasn’t much they could do other than exchanging letters with Henry and Liesl, educating the children to be different, and hoping.
Was hope enough? Or was hope a dangerous, fickle thing, as many authors since Ancient Greece had always warned?
Notes:
If you know your history, you know what comes next…
Chapter 25: Just a shot away
Summary:
12 March 1938: the day everything changes for the Trapps. The German Army, the Wehrmacht, marches in in Salzburg and Braunau am Inn first. Austria is no more.
Georg, Maria, and all of the children try to resist, this time not just by secretly financing the resistance. How will that go down? Will they have to leave the country? Will they manage in time? Will Liesl, Henry, and Louisa be able to help from London?
The family’s fictional narrative is set against a historically accurate backdrop based on sources. We’ll also meet lots of British personalities of the era.
Chapter title from Rolling Stones’ “Gimme shelter”: “War, children, it’s just a shot away”.
Notes:
Warnings: mention of all horrors of National Socialism as of 1938 (antisemitism, aryanisation, concentration camps, arrests, violence, people being hit etc.); indirect mention of torture; description of medical intervention on tortured people to treat them; tense confrontation between Georg and Rolf Gruber with a drawn pistol.
No characters’ deaths.
You can see the mentioned edition of the newspaper “Salzburger Volksblatt” on the website ANNO – Austrian newspapers online. Search for the website; select either the year 1938 or the newspaper first, then the other value next; then go to March and select 12 as day. The first page is the one mentioned.
You can also google Kolpinghaus to get an idea of the place.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
12 March 1938, Villa Trapp
The day began in peace.
Georg was reviewing Kurt and Brigitta’s blueprints, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth: how blessed he had been, with his children, and with his wives. Across the study, Maria—beautiful, brilliant Maria—sat absorbed in the estate accounts, a little frown of concentration on her forehead, her hand flicking a pencil in rhythm with her thoughts. Every now and then, her foot brushed his under the table.
They were happy.
Franz had not yet brought the newspapers. “A delay, sir,” he had said, and they thought little of it. The papers could wait. They would read them after lunch, seated leisurely in the sitting room.
Everything felt suspended, somehow. But they had taught themselves not to notice.
Lunch would be leisurely, together, as always.
Outside, the world was unnervingly quiet.
Until it wasn’t.
The front door slammed open.
Footsteps, running.
Then the study door burst wide.
“Papa, Mama, die san einmarschiert!”
Anna was breathless. Karoline stumbled in after her, flushed and panting.
Georg and Maria locked eyes—not in confusion, but in recognition.
The fact that Anna had spoken half-dialect bore testimony of the fact that she was reporting someone else’s words.
And… einmarschiert, marched in. There was only one meaning. Only one army.
Which would also explain why their daughters were not in school. They stopped breathing, for a while, and looked at the girls.
Anna caught her breath, and continued. “The Wehrmacht! Lisi and Gabi said their brothers went to help lift the bar at the Walserberg border!”
Maria saw exactly the moment Georg’s heart broke.
They had known this day would come. Of course they had.
But they had also pretended, lied to themselves, counted school terms, planting seasons, family milestones—anything to hold on to normal life for one more day.
Love had made them blind. Love, and fear.
The writing on the wall? They had ignored it.
Hypocrisy, self-deceit, or survival mode?
It mattered little. Now the Germans were here, leisurely ushered in by their children’s friends and their siblings, apparently. And who knew who else had gone to help and cheer the German army.
Georg had put down his papers slowly, looking into Anna’s eyes. His breath was irregular.
“Where is Florian, Anna?”
“I have no idea, Papa. There’s so many people on the Staatsbrücke. Cheering, waiting for the troops. He might be there, or stuck there. I brought Karo home as soon as possible, to be honest. There is no school today. Everyone is invited to welcome the Wehrmacht, they said.”
Anna’s reasoning hadn’t been too bad. It didn’t change the fact that Florian was an eight-year-old boy alone in town, with a foreign army marching in.
Maria tried. “Did you see Martha and Gretl somewhere?”
“No, Mama, I am sorry. I fear they may be stuck in town, to be honest. There’s people everywhere. We really had to push through.”
Georg stood up, gestured for Maria to follow him, then knelt by the girls and kissed them. “You are all right, I hope?” Maria, her own pain pushing through, could see tears forming in her husband’s eyes, could see his jaw trembling.
The girls nodded and hugged their father.
“Come, let’s see what the nanny and Thomas are up to. He will be glad to see you home so soon.”
Anna wasn’t convinced. “I am old enough to talk about politics with you, Papa. The others talk to me. They don’t tell me everything, but I know enough.”
Maria tried to convey through her stare that she wanted Georg to be understanding and more flexible. After all, the girls had already seen what had happened.
“All right, so, first, let’s go to the sitting room and tell me all that happened.”
Anna and Karoline told him that they had found the school closed, and that they had crossed a few of their friends, either going to the Staatsbrücke or to other gatherings in the Old Town, or even going to the border at the Saalachbrücke or Walserberg to witness the marching in. There were swastika flags and banners everywhere. They were aware of what it all meant—Anna more than Karoline, but both girls had been rather precocious. All four children born of Maria had inherited both their parents’ intellectual gifts, and profited from having seven older siblings, always challenging them and stimulating them.
Maria and Georg were holding hands, not in tenderness or passion, but in an attempt to remind themselves that they were not alone in this new trial life had seen fit to put them through.
Anna’s lucidity hurt a lot. “This is going to be much worse than us keeping a truce with the Fatherland Front, I suppose.”
Georg simply nodded.
Maria found the courage to speak. “Yes, my darlings. Remember never to speak of what we say with other people. Never! And let’s hope all of your siblings appear or call soon.”
Georg, his voice almost breaking, suggested, “We cannot leave Florian in town. We have to go look for him.”
And just in that moment, Franz came in, unannounced.
“Sir, here is the Neue Freie Presse. And I added the Salzburger Volksblatt, too. My courtesy. I think you will need to read all the local news, too.” He let them pick up the newspapers from the salver, which he then put down on the table.
Georg reached for the Volksblatt, and they all wished he hadn’t. Hitler’s image stared back at them, larger than life, above the slogan Those who love their people prove it by the sacrifice they are willing to make for the people itself. – Adolf Hitler
Franz then reprised, “And, out of loyalty, I think it’s only right for you to know that I have been a clandestine member of the Party for a while, now.” He pulled out a pin with a swastika and put it on.
Maria’s stomach twisted. She clutched the folds of her skirt to stop her hands from trembling.
They had lived through betrayal before—friends, servants, even relatives—joining the Fatherland Front.
But this was worse.
This was surrender to hatred, to madness.
“I will not insult you by greeting you with our salute. You are exemplary masters, and a loving family. But I do feel that I should inform you that the new regime will be different. They will require things of you. They might even require you to salute. I just hope you can find a way of living with it. All of you.”
Franz simply bowed and exited.
Karoline, in her innocence, spoke first. “That is not good. Right, Papa? Mama?”
Georg, looking into nothing, answered, “No, darling. It’s not. But for now, there is nothing to worry about. Let’s go and search for Thomas. Come on.”
After they had left Karoline and a protesting Anna with the nanny and Thomas, Georg pulled Maria back into the study, locked the door, and hugged her desperately, hiding his face in her neck.
“I cannot even stop and grieve for a moment. Florian is alone in town. We need to search for him. But I need a few minutes… I need them.” And he cried, he cried like Maria knew he had done when he had thought she would die of post-partum sepsis, like he must have done when Agathe died. Maria let him, kissing the crown of his head. She stroked the broad back that had once carried oceans and wars—and now bent under something far heavier.
This time there was no miracle treatment, no Friedrich ready to save the family.
Since fate always loved cruel irony, Friedrich did come home in that moment, doors slamming again. He knocked with some urgency on the study’s door.
“Papa, Mama, I am sorry to disturb, but it’s urgent. Could you please let me… let us in?”
Georg wiped his face and opened the door. There stood Friedrich and Dr Steinberg. Friedrich’s face was as dark as they had never seen before.
“Papa, Mama… I brought Dr Steinberg here. People are pulling out swastikas everywhere. It’s a disaster. I thought we should keep him here. I am going to pick up his wife, too.”
“Of course, Friedrich,” said Georg. “Although I have to tell you: Franz is a Party member. But he doesn’t seem to want to antagonise us. At least not for now.”
“Friedrich, we could pick up the Frau Doktor by ourselves, since we are going to look for Florian. Anna and Karoline have arrived on foot. Martha and Gretl should manage to come home safe and sound, we hope, but we will keep an eye open for them, too.”
“You are definitely not going to town. You would not like it. Aigen and Parsch are already bad enough for any political opponent, and Heaven knows you two could react in a dangerous way. Listen, I’ll go search for Florian. You can pick up Frau Steinberg. Just be careful. Ask Hans: he should do it out of loyalty, even though his ideas are suspicious. Does Anna have any idea where Florian could be?”
“She is with the nanny. I am sure she will be glad to help you. Go to her.”
“Be careful. I hope today is just for cheering, but I would not exclude attacks to Jewish shops and businesses.”
“Be careful too, Friedrich.”
Friedrich left without a word.
It was a long day, where the family tried to hide the worry for the missing children. They had found Frau Steinberg in Parsch and brought her back without too much trouble, except for a few looks and stares. But it was almost dinner time, and neither Friedrich with Florian, nor Martha and Gretl had reappeared.
Georg and Maria were worried sick.
The Steinbergs were in another sitting room by themselves. Karoline was luckily distracted by Thomas’s antics, but Anna came to sit near them on the divan.
“Well, I might at least be happy I skipped school,” she said, with her father’s and Brigitta’s brand of sarcasm. “Although I almost wish I had gone to school as usual.”
“Maybe if we had turned on the radio yesterday, we would have known earlier. But we do prefer playing and singing ourselves, or playing a record.” Maria tried to reason.
“This still doesn’t explain why the rest of the children are still missing. Kurt and Brigitta not calling… that I might understand. It’s probably impossible to phone anyone right now.” Rage was now taking possession of Georg. “After the meeting in Berchtesgaden, it seemed like we would get a referendum, at least. It was a chance. Even though some on the left actually would have voted for the Anschluss…”
“Georg, darling, you know the left tends to split in many groups. There are too many issues, too many ideas, and too many solutions. And anyway, I don’t think the Anschluss would have won. Most Social Democrats do not want a National Socialist regime. You know that because they asked us where exactly to redirect the money, when the issue came up.”
“I am sorry, Maria… in this moment I just feel rage against almost everyone who isn’t us or someone who thinks like us. If only Friedrich came home with Florian, maybe even Gretl and Martha… at least I would feel a little better.”
Maria sighed. “I know. I am just praying it was only the crowd, maybe some roads were closed to let the Wehrmacht march in.” She hugged her husband tight. Anna joined in, and they let her between them.
“What are we going to do if they don’t come back?” Anna’s voice was trembling. Her previous sarcasm must have been an attempt at being brave.
“We have to hope they come back, sweetheart.” Maria and Georg kissed the crown of her head, and swallowed tears.
Finally, finally they heard a car approaching the villa. Anna ran to the window and lifted their spirit. “It’s Friedrich’s!”
They all ran to the window, even Karoline and Thomas, and when they saw all four get off the car, they all caught their breath.
Friedrich hurried them all inside, probably imagining the state of mind the rest of the family would be.
Maria and Anna ran to them, hugging them all tightly, the other following.
Friedrich started, “We are so sorry! The German army is literally marching in, there is people cheering everywhere, as well as swastika flags and banners sprouting on every building.”
Florian, now in the arms of his father, added, “I followed my friends for a while, but soon I realised it had been a bad idea, because they wanted to cheer them. And I got lost in the crowd. I tried to go back on the river and walk home, but often people would not let me pass!”
Martha added too, “It was the same for me. It was quite some time until I found Friedrich.”
Gretl remarked, “I tried looking for everyone. I was so worried for Anna and Karoline, too. Only when I found Friedrich I learned they were home.”
Friedrich continued his explanation. “I had to park my car near Steinlechner, and walked all the way to the river. Then I had to try to search for them all, but as they say, roads were blocked and people were standing everywhere. I knew they would have to either cross Karolinenbrücke or pass by it to come home, so I decided to take position between the bridge and Volksgarten, and tried to only walk in that section of town. It was so hard, but it paid off. But it was a long day.”
Gretl commented, “And if I ever see a swastika or a Hitlergruß again, I swear I won't be responsible for what I might say or do.”
“Good luck with that, Gretl. Franz is a member of the Party!”
Gretl’s answer was a raw, angry, and frankly scary “AARGH!”
Martha sighed. “As far as we know, there might be disruption in education for a while. They want people to celebrate. And I suppose they will also purge all schools and universities. So, I guess we have a few days by ourselves.”
Friedrich was still worried. “Did Kurt and Brigitta call or send a telegram?”
Georg tried to rationalise. “No, but I am sure it’s only because right now nothing would get through. We have to stay calm. Friedrich, have you told the others about the Steinbergs?”
“Yes. That will be another challenge. What are we going to do?”
Maria sighed. “Whatever is possible for us and for them. We don’t know already. But we will do something.”
13 March 1938, villa Trapp
“Well, we are officially annexed. Committees, administrations and so on are being purged since yesterday,” said Friedrich, turning off the radio.
“To think that we didn’t turn on the radio on the 11th,” observed Georg.
Maria, more politically clear-sighted, bitterly remarked, “We would have simply given up one last night of good sleep. We would have heard that strategic posts had already been occupied, then what? The only advantage would have been that we would have kept the children home. That much I give you.”
“Dr Steinberg, what do you think? And what are you going to do?” Friedrich was worried for his superior.
“Son, I have no idea. For now, we are grateful that we can stay here. But I fear we will not stay long. We cannot have you risk your life for us.”
“Florian went for a walk around here with Karoline. He says there is people selling flags, banners, and swastikas. Almost everyone is displaying the swastika in some form. And some people have already drawn a swastika on the Steinbergs’ house,” said Martha.
Gretl offered, “Should I go and check your surgery, Dr Steinberg, Friedrich?”
Georg knew he would have to see the world outside sooner or later, and preferred to keep the children safe. “No, I am going. I have to assess the situation for myself.”
“Georg! Please, don’t!” Maria’s plea stemmed from the fact that she feared he might react.
“Maria, I am only going for a walk. I cannot just shut myself here for days. If what the younger children have seen is what is going on in Salzburg, I have to get used to it.”
“Promise me you will not do anything, or argue with anyone.”
Georg took her hands in his. “I promise,” a tight smile on his face.
Anna, who had once again sneaked in, offered “I will come with you. That way, Mama will be sure you will behave.”
Georg absolutely did not agree, but Anna was born of himself and Maria, and as he had learned twelve years ago, he could not win an argument like this—not against Maria, and certainly not against their daughter, so stubborn and fierce like them both.
Especially because Friedrich agreed. The Steinbergs did not express themselves, but their expression seemed suspiciously supportive of Anna’s idea.
And so, father and daughter decided to walk around. And they saw.
They would soon be the only ones without a flag on display.
And the surgery’s sign had already been vandalised. Dr Steinberg’s name covered with paint and a swastika, only Friedrich’s name left intact.
Friedrich almost punched the wall, only to be stopped by Anna, who threw herself between Friedrich and the wall without thinking, before Georg could even react. “You need your hands to heal people, Friedrich,” the ten-year-old said.
Maria and Georg thanked the Lord for giving them such an extraordinary daughter. They had no idea how important Anna’s reaction would be in the future.
18 March 1938
Finally, the phone rang. It was Kurt and Brigitta.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, Papa, we are both fine. But… what should we do?”
“Lead the company as we have always done. It’s our company. Our private property.”
“Have you contacted Henry, Liesl, and Louisa in London?”
“We sent a telegram on the 11th. Probably didn’t go through. We should try and send a letter via the British Embassy as soon as possible.”
“All right. Just write it. Either we pick it up, or we meet here in Linz. Stay safe over there!”
“Stay safe. We love you! And… Kurt? Happy birthday.”
“We love you, too! Thank you, Papa!”
23 March 1938, villa Trapp
Friedrich was fuming, and Maria and Georg could do nothing. Dr Steinberg was silent, his expression resigned.
“They gave me the surgery. Aryanisation, they call it. There, they even gifted me with a new sign. At least, no swastika. Dr Steinberg can still practice by himself, but he can no longer be my superior, nor share premises or work with me.” He threw the sign on the desk.
Georg and Maria prayed silently. For their son, and for the many Jewish doctors who might be going through the same.
“What are you going to do, Friedrich?” Georg’s voice was kind, but firm.
“I am going to find a substitute, so that patients are not left without assistance, and I am going to England. I cannot do this. Louisa was right: I should have gone with her in 1933. I will sell the car and all the things I will not need, then I will ask Liesl and Henry for assistance.”
Another one who would leave. How long before they would have to follow? Georg and Maria feared it would come to that, but it was all so confused right now. They were parents to young children still. Friedrich was a man, and could just leave if he wished to.
“Friedrich, none of this is your fault. Neither Dollfuss, nor Schuschnigg, nor Hitler. And we admire you for your rectitude, for your choice. Take your time to prepare yourself, and don’t do anything rush. Just promise us this,” said Maria. Georg nodded in assent.
28 March 1938, Linz
"Ingenieur von Trapp?"
Both Kurt and Brigitta lifted their gaze from the blueprints, though they knew they most likely meant Kurt.
Even if, paradoxically, the National Socialists seemed less opposed to women in qualified positions than the Austrofascists had been.
And National Socialists they were—SS, to be precise. Two in uniform, one in civilian clothes.
„I am Ingenieur Kurt von Trapp."
"And I am Ingenieur Brigitta von Trapp."
“Co-owners and co-managers of the company?” It was one of the SS who spoke.
“Yes,” Brigitta answered for them, as Kurt had agreed she would—just to get on people's nerves.
“As all businesses in the Reich, you are required to submit your payroll and the list of all who work for or with you, so that we can check whether there are Jews in positions they should not hold.”
The siblings exchanged a look of understanding.
Kurt’s voice was steady, almost too steady. “This is a private company. Mostly family-owned. Several shareholders, too, who trust us. We have no reason or obligation to surrender this information.”
The civilian smiled without humour.
“You misunderstand. It is no longer a request.”
Kurt smiled one of his best smiles. “Oh, that means you are going to stay here for a very long time.
Because neither I nor my sister will ever give you access to that information.”
“Feel free to see if you can find out by yourself,” Brigitta added, smiling in turn. “We might even bring you coffee.”
The SS asked once again: “Do you confirm that you refuse to comply with our order?”
“We most certainly do. Coffee?” Brigitta asked sweetly. “Otherwise, we really have to finish reviewing these blueprints.”
The SS and the civilian nodded once.
Then they stepped forward.
One of the SS seized Kurt by the arm, twisting it hard behind his back.
The other shoved Brigitta roughly against the wall.
The civilian spoke again, almost casually: “Friends of the Jews. Traitors. You will explain yourselves in town. Coffee is on the Gestapo.”
Kurt struggled briefly—a mistake.
The SS man struck him hard in the stomach, then yanked his arms tighter.
Brigitta cried out, but the SS man gripping her snarled:
“Scream once, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
They were dragged out into the street, hands wrenched behind their backs.
No one said a word.
Kurt and Brigitta were wedged between the two SS men in the back seat, their wrists roughly tied.
Neither spoke.
Better not to.
When they arrived, they looked at the building.
Kolpinghaus. A modernist, New Objectivity jewel, now bent to the will of the new regime.
They were shoved through a door and into a holding room. The air smelled faintly of dust and something industrial, as if the room had recently been repurposed. It was empty except for several boxes lying around, a bench and a uniformed officer behind a battered desk. It looked like the offices were still being organised
The man did not look up as he spoke.
“Names. Date and place of birth.”
“Kurt von Trapp. 18 March 1915, Zell am See,” Kurt said.
“Brigitta von Trapp, 3 October 1916, Zell am See,” Brigitta followed.
The officer gestured to the man in civilian clothes. “Search them for identification.”
The civilian inspected their pockets, and found their driving licences.
Finally, the man raised his eyes. He gave a thin smile.
“Von Trapp, is it? Brought in as traitors to the Reich and friends of the Jews. This should be interesting.”
He passed some papers to the SS, who began filling them in.
Then he nodded to the civilian, who opened another door and whispered something.
A second uniformed man appeared through the door and—without warning—slammed a fist into Kurt’s ribs.
Kurt doubled over, gasping.
Brigitta tried to move toward him, but one of the guards seized her by the hair and yanked her back.
Kurt straightened slowly, his breath wheezing.
He met his sister’s eyes—one brief glance—telling her: Don’t react. Don’t give them anything.
The uniformed man reprised, “Soft-hearted, are we?”
“No wonder you love the Jews so much. Maybe you're even carrying one of their bastards.”
The words were spat in her face.
One of the SS added, “They mocked us. The man tried to resist arrest.”
The officer shrugged.
“Well, I’d say we serve them a few other reminders that orders are not to be contested. Both of them. We wouldn’t want her to carry a Jewish bastard to term, would we?”
The civilian and the uniformed men stepped forward and began kicking them both, mostly in the belly and flanks, until they could no longer stand.
Then, without ceremony, they were dragged down the corridor and thrown into adjoining cells.
As the door clanged shut, the civilian called after them: “Next time we talk, if we don’t like what we hear —you will get your coffee. Scorching hot. On your hands.”
The keys turned in the locks.
Silence.
28 March 1938, Mayfair, London
“No news? Henry, please—please tell me the British Embassy knows something. That they have a letter. A telegram. Anything.” Liesl’s voice cracked with barely contained sobs, and Henry could not stand the idea of his beloved wife suffering like that. It amplified his own fears.
And their baby? Would it feel their pain, too? Little George definitely understood that something was wrong.
Even Louisa, usually the resilient one, was on the verge of tears.
Henry shook his head, a grim expression on his face. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry, Lou. I’m terribly worried myself.” He paused, visibly battling with his own helplessness. “But I keep hoping it’s just... a delay. Maybe they didn’t have time to get a letter to the Embassy yet. We have to keep hoping.”
No one answered. They simply sat in silence, the kind that thickens like fog when fear takes over.
29 March, Villa Trapp
Maria had barely managed to whisper a warning to the Steinbergs to hide when she heard boots striking the marble floors.
Of all the people she had feared might come, she hadn’t expected to see him.
Herr Zeller, smug as ever, strode into the entry hall flanked by three SS men.
He saluted Franz. “Ah! A Party comrade! Excellent. Very good indeed.”
Maria's heart sank. Franz’s bow and quiet gestures of hospitality were worthless shields now.
Keeping her voice steady, Maria offered, “Good morning. I will have a maid bring you something. My husband and I will join you shortly. Tea? Coffee?”
“Baroness von Trapp!” Zeller crowed, beaming with false warmth. “Time has only improved you, I see!”
His excessive cheer only deepened her dread. “Coffee and water will be fine,” Zeller said, eyes glinting.
When Georg appeared, Maria moved swiftly to his side, feeling safer with his arm brushing hers. Together they entered the smaller salon. They sat, stiff-backed, across from Zeller and his men.
“Herr Zeller. What brings you here in such distinguished company?” Georg’s sarcasm barely concealed the tension vibrating under his words.
Zeller chuckled, pretending offense. “Come now, Captain. Can't an old friend pay a call?”
He nodded toward one of the SS—a hulking blond man. “This is Rolf. You remember Rolf Gruber, don't you?”
Maria blinked, memories snapping into place.
Before she could speak, another SS man added, “Our Sturmscharführer Gruber used to court a lady here. Quite the beauty, I’m told.”
Maria smiled tightly. “Rolf Gruber. I remember. You always dreamed of service over love, if I recall. Congratulations.”
It came out sharper than she intended, but the contempt in her voice was unmistakable.
As she poured coffee, Georg cut to the heart of it. “I seriously doubt you’re here for small talk, Herr Zeller. Out with it.”
Rolf Gruber snapped, “It is we who ask the questions now, Captain.”
“No need for threats, Sturmscharführer.” Zeller waved him off. Then he turned back to Georg, all snake-like courtesy.
“We were reviewing some records,” he said lightly, as though mentioning the weather. “Your past, dear Captain, is... fascinating.”
Maria felt Georg’s fingers tense around hers, and she squeezed his hand, wordlessly begging him to stay calm.
“I admit when I checked all I could find about the Trapps I was extremely amused. Despite your radicalisation, courtesy of your enchanting second wife, you actually financed the Heimwehr against us once in 1933. You must have been really scared of us. Or maybe Markl cheated you out of your money. We might never know. He should be in Dachau right now.”
Maria and Georg felt a chill through their body.
“But then it gets better. You financed the Social Democrats from 1934 onwards via your Danube sailing and shipping company. A little bit of trouble, I see, when a part of the Austrian left decided to support the Anschluss or even us directly… then, luckily for you, your money found its way back to those who hated both Schuschnigg and us. Oh, I see you are worried. Don’t be. We found all this amusing, just… amusing.” He smirked, then sipped some coffee.
Then smiled coldly.
“You know what we don’t find amusing? People who refuse to comply with orders. People who make us lose time. Like your son Kurt and your daughter Brigitta.”
Maria could not help gripping Georg’s hand on the divan. He let her thread her fingers through his, and gripped her too, terror taking over them.
“Yesterday, some of us went to your company to check whether you are complying with our guidelines and laws about Aryanisation. Your son Friedrich should know all about it by now. I know he doesn’t like it, but at least he is not causing us delays. No one cares whether he practices medicine or not. Your son Kurt and your daughter Brigitta, however, refused to submit the company’s payroll and the list of all employees, co-workers, collaborators and so on. This is not how we intend to run the country!”
Maria could hardly breathe. She felt Georg’s hand trembling faintly against hers.
Georg found the courage to ask, “What exactly did you…”
Herr Zeller interrupted him. “We need to check whether there are Jews that are to be excluded or removed. Your children, who are, as I see here” he pulled out some documentation from his pocket and tapped it, “co-owners and co-managers of your company, refused to comply, then mocked our men. They are now meditating on their poor choices in the newly opened Gestapo prison in Linz. Friends of the Jews. Traitors.”
The cold words slammed into Maria like a physical blow. She gripped Georg’s hand with sudden ferocity.
He squeezed back once, telling her: Stay strong.
Then, he surged forward in his seat.
“It’s our company! We cannot surrender information, and we have the right to manage our private property as we see fit!”
Zeller cut him off with a smirk.
“Captain von Trapp, every private company has to comply with local laws. Your children refused to comply. We hope to have your children see reason while they serve their sentence. But we are also warning you two, co-owners and co-managers as well. We need that information.”
Maria’s composure crumbled. Tears welled in her eyes, and she could barely whisper, “When… when will Kurt and Brigitta be released?”
Zeller shrugged, deliberately casual.
“When — if — we decide.”
Georg knew what he had to do. “I will sell the company. We will all sell our shares. You can take your precious lists from whoever buys it.”
“You don’t seem to understand my request, Captain.”
Maria could hardly hear through the roaring in her ears.
Georg fought to keep his voice level. “The information you seek is not here. If you really want it, you’d be much quicker sending someone to the offices in Linz and searching for it yourself. Feel free to check my study if you don’t believe me.”
Zeller grinned. “Ironically, that was your children’s suggestion, too. And yes, we already did that. Actually, a few of your employees offered to help. Eager to assist. Can you believe it?” His face darkened, his voice turning mocking. “But I wanted to see you. I wanted to see where you stand. We do not expect you to be friendly towards us. But you will find that, sometimes, you will have to comply. I trust your children will have learned their lesson soon, and I trust you will, too.”
Zeller finished his coffee and rose. His voice rang out, cutting the heavy air. “Consider yourselves warned. Comply. Or share your children's fate, or much worse.”
He turned at the doorway, offering a mocking salute. “Heil Hitler!”
The men filed out.
As soon as the door shut, Maria collapsed against Georg, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Georg! Kurt and Brigitta… They—!”
“I know, my love. I know.” He held her against his chest, his voice cracking. “The worst thing a parent can hear.”
She lifted her tear-streaked face. “What can we do?”
Georg pressed a desperate kiss to her hair.
“We write to Liesl and Henry. Immediately. And we pray.”
And for the first time in his life, the proud Captain von Trapp had no plan—only hope.
He then turned his head sharply, calling out in a voice that cracked with urgency. “Trudi, quickly, send someone to fetch Friedrich—now! Tell him it's urgent!”
Friedrich left his surgery on grounds of an emergency—which, in a bitter twist, was true. As the maid whispered what had happened, he froze at his desk, a patient still coughing outside in the waiting room.
At first, his jaw clenched with disbelief, but as the truth settled in, something turned in his stomach. He felt almost sick at the thought of stitching up wounds or relieving cough for people who waved swastikas while his siblings were being locked up like criminals.
His knuckles whitened around the doorknob as he stepped outside.
Then, ashamed, he muttered a prayer under his breath.
The Oath. The Church. Forgive me, Lord. I must still be a doctor.
“Have you started writing to Liesl and Henry?” Friedrich was pacing like a caged animal.
“We have,” Georg answered flatly. He stood by the fireplace, stiff as stone, his voice flat, the warmth of the fire doing little to thaw the chill that had settled in him since the German tanks rolled in.
“I’m writing my part too. This is 1934 all over. Just… worse.”
Maria’s face tightened. “At least… at least there are men in Britain who take Hitler seriously. Remember what Henry said about Churchill? Even if he's now a Conservative, he still sees the threat. And Henry—Henry can build bridges. Across parties.”
Georg didn’t look up. “You know what that will mean, of course.”
Maria and Friedrich responded at once. “War.”
Georg nodded. He was still staring into the flames. “War.”
A long letter was composed, relating all they had seen, all they had experienced. Friedrich’s plans to come to London soon. The family’s plans to come, too, as soon as they could sell all they wanted or needed to, and as soon as they found whom to rent out the villa. They also mentioned the need for them to be accepted as refugees, even if Catholics and not Jews.
And Friedrich then prepared for his journey to Vienna. A difficult journey, to say farewell to so many people. And then, the daunting task of being admitted to the British Embassy in a land now part of the Reich.
He felt the weight of suspicion and the ever-present gaze of the new authorities on his journey.
Maria and Georg were no strangers to desperation—to seeking refuge in each other when the world turned cruel. In 1933 and 1934, they had already learned how grief could reshape their already passionate love life.
But after the Anschluss, Georg had not touched her—not like that. He had only asked to hold her at night, drawing her into his chest with silent insistence. It was uncharacteristic of him, and she had understood. His silence spoke of helplessness.
Then, after a few nights, he changed. The fear hadn’t lessened—but his need to feel alive again had overtaken it. He sought her out, and she had gladly answered.
Now, after the arrest of the children, it was Maria who reached for him first. Not out of lust, but out of something deeper—a desperate, aching grief that had nowhere else to go.
That night, they clung to each other not for comfort, but to stay sane. Their movements were not slow or sweet. They were urgent. The world was unravelling—and they needed to feel it hadn’t already taken everything.
Friedrich checked his documents once more in the Embassy waiting room. He wasn’t sure why—he knew them by heart already. The thick letter to Lord and Lady Aldbury. His mother Agathe’s papers. The family’s certificates proving kinship to the Whiteheads. Records of the sailing and shipping companies in Linz and in England. The file on the Aryanisation of his surgery.
He swallowed hard. His palms were damp.
Let this be enough.
The clerk came. “Dr von Trapp? His Excellency will see you now.”
The ambassador received him almost immediately—Henry’s invisible hand, smoothing the way.
“Lord Aldbury will certainly be glad to finally hear from you. As for your request, it is my duty to tell you that we are prioritising Jewish families. However, I suppose between Lord Aldbury and your numerous ties to the country, not to mention your political commitment, we will be able to issue refugee status too.”
Friedrich gave a tense nod.
“My brother and sister are in prison,” he added, after a pause. “It’s not official. Not yet. But it will be.”
The ambassador’s expression sharpened slightly. “We’ll make sure that’s noted. Do you have their full names and dates of birth in your file?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then we’ll see what we can do.”
“Thank you. I’m… grateful. For my siblings. And the ones who will come after.”
The ambassador steepled his fingers. “Would you mind describing, in your own words, what’s been happening in your district? From a medical and personal perspective. It will help us justify the file.”
Friedrich nodded again. This, at least, I can do.
Saying farewell.
How could he tell his cousin Connie he was leaving—possibly forever?
Especially after the quiet distance that had crept between them since Liesl’s wedding. Her husband, once of the Fatherland Front, had welcomed the NSDAP’s generous offer to absorb their organisation—citing “shared values.”
And yet, Friedrich shed a tear. For the beautiful memories they had once made together. For the little boy she already had, and the child she was expecting.
He shook her husband’s hand, perfunctorily. The man didn’t ask. Didn’t judge.
The Auerspergs were simpler farewells. The same could not be said for Aunt Connie, Aunt Joan—and especially not for Gromi.
Another of Agathe’s children was leaving. Another of Georg’s. Soon, all of them would be gone, and Gromi’s world—and Joan’s, and Connie’s—would shrink again.
“I have learned to say farewell a long time ago,” Gromi said. “I love you, my dear boy. Remember that.”
Friedrich took Aunt Connie aside.
“Take care of your daughter. You know war is coming. You know what war is.”
She looked at him, calmly.
“She knew whom she married. And so did I.”
Aunt Joan promised she would kiss Uncle Robert for him. She asked him to kiss Frankie in London for them.
Friedrich told no one—not even them—about Kurt and Brigitta’s arrest.
Those whom he could tell were Aunt Elsa and Uncle Max. They were the only ones he trusted with the truth.
“You’ll hate me for saying this, Friedrich,” Elsa began. “But… I’m not surprised Kurt is among the arrested. That said, we are still trying to find our place in the new regime. We’re… making friends. I know you despise it. But you know how we are.”
Then she smiled, sadly. “And you also must know—the new regime has brought glamour and flair back to the capital.”
“Yes, Aunt Elsa,” Friedrich replied coolly. “I’m thrilled to hear that champagne and music are flourishing under the swastika.”
Max stepped in. “One of our new party friends may be able to help. He might get your siblings out. But honestly—why did they antagonise the authorities? Couldn’t they just have said, ‘Of course, we’ll have the information ready by ten tomorrow’, and handed over some nonsense?”
He added, as if explaining the obvious: “The Anschluss was peaceful…”
“Oh yes,” Friedrich said. “Two days of parades and flags and paint on walls. That’s easy peace.
The ones shipped to Dachau—they’re grateful. Dr Steinberg is grateful. Kurt and Brigitta are grateful.”
Max and Elsa exchanged a glance.
“If this furious young man is truly who you’ve become,” Elsa said quietly, “then yes. England may be the only place for you now. We can’t imagine what Georg or Maria might do with their temper—if they were ever forced to react.”
Her eyes shimmered with sadness. “We will miss you. But it’s true. You have to go.”
“They’ll all come to say goodbye, don’t worry,” Friedrich said, softening his tone.
Uncharacteristically, both Max and Elsa hugged him. “We’ll let you know if we can help. Safe travels, Friedrich. Maybe we’ll meet again.”
The last farewell was not really a farewell. That had happened long ago—in February 1922.
And it was not in Vienna, but in Klosterneuburg.
“Hello, Mamá,” he whispered.
“This might be the last time I bring you flowers. I don’t know if I’ll ever be back.
But Papa was right, long ago. This is just a cold marble grave.
I don’t know how all this works, but I know you’re still watching over us—even Mama Maria and the four new siblings.
They say this is how love works.
Please, Mamá… watch over Kurt and Brigitta. And over all of us.”
He placed the carnation at the foot of the stone. Kissed his fingertips, touched the marble.
Then he rose, gave the grave a final look, and walked away.
8 April 1938, House of Lords, London
His valet entered with a silver salver, and this time the envelope looked very familiar.
So did Davies’s words.
“A dispatch from the Foreign Office, my Lord.”
Henry almost sobbed in front of his valet. It had been almost a month. There was no amount of tenderness that could console his wife, the baby inside her, and their dear boy. No amount of brotherly affection for poor Louisa, who carried on as if nothing happened when at work, and showed all her vulnerability in the evenings.
Whatever was in the envelope, it was better than knowing nothing.
“Thank you, Davies. I will call you if I need you. Which I probably will.”
He grabbed the envelope with an abrupt gesture, and tore at the envelope.
After reading it all, he was suddenly filled with purpose again. It was time for Henry Haverstone, Earl of Aldbury, to act.
He had Ricky sent in, first.
“Lord Mattishall,” he said, to mark that he wanted to act as a Lord, “please, read all of this. As family, and as fellow Liberal, I trust you.”
Then he called the townhouse.
“Mrs Parker, please have the chauffeur bring Lady Aldbury to me. Yes, here at the House of Lords.”
Ricky looked at him. “Inviting your Lady to the House of Lords?”
“We can dispose of our meeting rooms as we see fit. And I would like to remind you that I once crashed…”
“… yes, Lord Aldbury, I can recall the entire list by heart. But as much as I miss those times, this is serious.”
“Which is why Lady Aldbury will be present and do her duty to the country and the Crown. We will first speak privately here, of course. This is hard for us, as a family, too.”
Ricky nodded.
Henry called his valet and an usher, and issued new directives in his best lord voice. “I intend to meet this afternoon with Lord Lothian, Viscount Cecil of Chelwood, Lord Crewe, Lord Samuel, Baron Davies, Sir Winston Churchill, Mr Attlee, Mr Dalton, Mr Noel-Baker, Ms Wilkinson, and Mr Lansbury. Tell them it’s urgent. Missive from the Foreign Office. Lord Mattishall and Lady Aldbury will also be present.”
Ricky returned to his office to prepare for the afternoon meeting.
After a while, Liesl was ushered into her husband’s room.
Henry ran to her and took her in his arms.
“Elisabeth… my love… they are alive! They are all alive! But they need our help. We need to do everything we can.”
Liesl felt a weight lift from her chest. As long as there was something they could do, they would be fine. She knew it. She sobbed into her husband’s embrace.
After she had read the long letters, she sobbed again.
“Arrested as traitors. Friends of the Jews.” Her voice cracked. “No contact. And they all need refugee status.”
“We’ll start with Friedrich,” Henry said gently. “We don’t know where he is. Maybe he’s already on his way here—maybe the ambassador helped him. Or maybe he stayed behind to see Kurt and Brigitta freed.”
Liesl looked up at him, eyes wet but fierce. “What are we doing today, Henry?”
“I’ve gathered the most vocal Lords and MPs. We will tell them everything. The real story of the Anschluss. What is happening to Austrians who resist. That we must prepare to host refugees. That we will not appease Hitler.”
He paused, then added:
“And we will remind them that the great-grandchildren of Robert Whitehead, and siblings by marriage to the Earl of Aldbury, are imprisoned for defending their home and their company. Britain will not stand for that.”
Liesl studied him—so handsome, so clear-headed, so stubbornly hers.
“I love you,” she whispered. “And I’m glad I am exactly where I need to be in a time like this—next to the one man who will face it all the way I want to face it.”
“You just stole my words.” He smiled. “As you once stole my heart—and still do. I should punish you: stealing from a lord is a serious crime, you know.” He kissed her.
Then he straightened.
“But now,” he said, offering his hand with grave ceremony, “it is time for Lord and Lady Aldbury to make their appearance.”
The private room had the air of a war council, not a parliamentary meeting. And, in fact, one might even say it was a war council ante litteram. The participants just didn’t know that a war would come, yet. They had come not through protocol, but by persuasion—summoned not by whips, but by Henry’s sense of urgency.
Lord and Lady Aldbury sat side by side, almost regally, their faces showing their worry, of course, but above all their determination and self-assurance. Their brother by marriage Lord Mattishall was already seated near Aldbury.
The presence of Sir Winston Churchill, the most vocal enemy of appeasement, was Henry’s personal victory for the day. But every single presence was important: several Liberal lords who spoke openly against Hitler and advocated a more active foreign policy to stop Hitler and ensure the respect of human rights; several Labour MPs whose opposition to Hitler seemed to go beyond a simple declaration of principles. He knew that Noel-Baker, to name one, might not like the inevitable aggressive stance they would all have to take—namely, preparing for war. But… war was not their choice. It would be Hitler’s.
Henry asked Elisabeth to read portions of the letter, and to summarise other portions, making it clear that human rights and habeas corpus were a thing of the past, that the only certainty was the persecution of Jews. That the peaceful Anschluss had been a farce. That the population had largely cheered the Wehrmacht. She talked of Aryanisation.
“The prisons and concentration camps are filling up with all the ‘undesirable’ of the regime. If we wait longer, we will be condemning them ourselves.”
Then, the last bit.
“Our family members—my brother Kurt and my sister Brigitta— have been arrested in Linz. Their crime is resisting fascism—and protecting a private company based also on my father’s expertise. An expertise Britain has been relying on since over a decade. Another one of the family’s companies is here in London. And several companies employ him as a consultant, and my siblings too.”
Churchill, his cigar in hand, replied grimly: “This confirms what I’ve feared. And it won’t stop at Austria. The only problem is that the refugee issue is an international issue. We will have to consult with Roosevelt, I am sure.”
Clement Attlee was quiet, controlled. “We must act—on humanitarian grounds, if nothing else.”
Noel-Baker and Ms Wilkinson had their priorities straight. “We must open the doors now. Not when it’s too late, “ and Lord Samuel agreed.
Lord Crewe promised to intervene in the Lords, so that more voices could be heard.
By the end of the meeting, some had promised action, others caution—but none could claim ignorance. Henry and Liesl, as Lord and Lady Aldbury, also promised they would contact Gedye and their friend Simon, to ensure qualitatively adequate press coverage.
There was also a moment of levity. Henry, smirking, approached Sir Winston.
“Perhaps this is the moment we get you back among the Liberals, Winston.”
Churchill didn’t miss a beat.
“The Liberals—so full of principle they split twice before breakfast. And from what I hear, you’re the one turning Labour, Aldbury.”
Henry, still grinning, replied, “My mother-in-law and some of my siblings by marriage would be thrilled to hear that.”
Churchill lit a cigar. “Then I suppose we should all be grateful they don’t form His Majesty’s Government.”
“Elisabeth, Louisa, there is still one thing we might do for Kurt and Brigitta. But it’s rather distasteful. You know… after what he did after the abdication. It’s up to you.”
Liesl looked at her sister, then at her husband, with a certain degree of outrage, but also of curiosity as to what Henry thought would happen. “You mean the Duke of Windsor? What do you expect him to do, Henry? Host a charity gala at the Berghof, invite the SS, and ask them ‘Pretty please, set the Trapps free’?”
Henry grinned. “Imagine the gala program: cocktails, propaganda, and a small exhibition of art retrieved from Jewish houses. Oh, and we could all crash it dressed as Scottish Highlanders. Kilt, sporran and all. You know, for effect.” Then he turned serious again. “No, darling. We write the truth. What happened to them. What he might let his new friends know. That there is not going to be any friendship Britain-Germany if our siblings become martyrs.”
Louisa looked at Liesl. They understood each other.
“If you think you can write a compelling letter, and if you believe it won’t harm them, do it.”
“Oh, I can and I will. And even if I exaggerate my bitterness and upset the Duke, at least I will know the Royal Family will enjoy it immensely.”
A letter was thus delivered to the former King, former friend, and current national embarrassment.
Dear Windsor,
I trust your last golfing holiday in Berchtesgaden offered the fresh air and hearty company you so clearly enjoy. We know the area well—my wife’s family lives not far from there.
You may wish to inform your hosts—over champagne or something more Teutonic—that martyrdoms tend to become problematic. Especially when the martyrs in question are British-connected industrialists who have advised and partnered with our Admiralty and a fair number of entrepreneurs for over a decade.
The arrest of my wife’s siblings, Kurt and Brigitta von Trapp, under charges of “Jewish sympathies” and “economic sabotage,” will not go unnoticed—nor unchallenged.
Should the Reich imagine it can detain or harm members of families linked by blood to Lord Aldbury and by expertise to Britain’s naval defence, your Bavarian acquaintances may find their circle of friends at court even more diminished than before your French exile.
Do pass along our regards. And should you return to the Berghof: do aim better. There’s a shopkeeper on Rathausplatz down in Berchtesgaden who still hasn’t replaced his windows. Yet another unfortunate martyrdom—easily avoidable.
I remain, as ever,
Your most unpredictable golf partner,
Aldbury
Even the toughest of the tough have to backpedal on their plans of making an example out of particularly stubborn enemies.
Especially when in the highest echelons of the SS, the Gestapo, and above all the party, several notes started circulating. A group of angry British Lords and MPs, one with personal stakes. Diplomats and even a good friend from the Royal Family saying between the line that martyrdom tends to backfire, and that having Britain as an enemy was not what Germany wanted.
The order for the release of the two von Trapps was issued, and the family had to be informed.
It was a warm April day after a stretch of cold, grey rain. A day not so different from the one they had met, twelve years earlier.
Georg and Maria were walking with little Thomas, who loved nothing more than watching birds and bugs and blossoms—and who, like all his siblings, had enough energy to power a small city. He needed the outlet. They all did.
These walks were one of the only ways to forget the reality closing in. Being together, just the three of them, or sometimes the whole family—laughing, breathing. Loving.
Without these moments, they would go mad.
Thomas had just commanded another kiss from both his parents (which he accepted with a very serious nod of satisfaction), then skipped ahead singing a Jagdlied, off-key and proud. Georg and Maria squeezed each other’s hand at the sight of his freedom—so pure it almost hurt.
Then Thomas stopped dead in his tracks and turned back.
“Mama, Papa… the men in black!”
He ran to them, his face wiped clean of joy. Georg and Maria both muttered a whispered “Scheiße.” Maria instinctively stepped in front of her son; Georg’s arm tightened protectively around them both.
And there they were: three SS men stepping out of the tree line like wolves—crisp uniforms, black leather boots gleaming. One of them was Sturmscharführer Rolf Gruber. He stepped forward and pulled a letter from his coat.
“Good morning, Captain. Baroness. I have an important message. You will understand that its content must remain confidential.”
Georg gave him a flat stare. “Back to postman duties, Gruber? I regret to inform you that none of my daughters are interested.”
Maria jabbed her elbow into his ribs.
Rolf’s jaw twitched. “This is not ordinary post,” he replied coolly, handing him the envelope.
Georg broke the seal. Maria leaned in to read with him.
“They… are free?”
“Yes. Some pressure from abroad, it seems. The Party has no interest in martyrs. Nor in diplomatic tension with Britain. The order came from above. You will not repeat this to anyone—we will know if you do.”
He paused.
“And as for your daughters... a pity. That a woman like Elisabeth should be so thoroughly indoctrinated. Now she plays the British whore. Countess of Aldbury, is it?”
Maria’s face flushed scarlet. She stepped forward—voice controlled, but shaking with fury.
“You are one to talk. You nearly handed her to the Party when she was seventeen. A girl.”
Georg took over, calm but sharp. “As for brainwashing, your masters perfected it. And I choose to believe you were brainwashed too. You were a boy, Rolf. You had an honest life ahead of you. They turned good boys into executioners. Like you.”
Rolf’s nostrils flared. He twitched. Then, fast—almost too fast to see—he pulled out his pistol and aimed it directly at Georg’s temple. His hand trembled.
Maria gasped and instinctively pressed Thomas’s head into her skirts. She didn’t scream—didn’t move—but her eyes never left Georg.
Rolf’s voice broke. “You don’t get to say that to me.”
Georg didn’t flinch. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths.
“Go ahead. Shoot me. Do it right here, in front of my wife and my youngest son. Then go back and tell your commander you murdered a decorated officer, left eleven children fatherless—and wait to see what Britain says next.”
For a moment, nothing moved. Even the birds had gone silent.
Then Rolf’s arm slackened. The gun lowered.
The silence that followed was heavy, unnatural.
“Kolpinghaus,” he said, voice rough. “In Linz. That’s where they are. Don’t tell anyone. And pray the storm hits somewhere else.”
He turned sharply and walked away. The other two followed without a word. Their boots cracked the gravel path, then faded into the woods.
Maria crouched down and looked at Thomas, who was clutching her leg, upset and confused. She kissed his forehead, brushing his hair off his damp brow.
Georg—tall, still breathing hard—lifted the boy into his arms.
“We have to go,” he said quietly. “Friedrich should have found someone to take over the surgery by now. He can come home, if we need him.”
Maria squeezed his hand—but not lovingly. When they reached the house, they gave Thomas to the nanny, then Maria dragged Georg aside by his lapel.
She touched his chest, then his cheek. Her thumb traced the line of his jaw—rougher now. Her eyes blazed.
“Don’t you ever do that again. Not for pride. Not for country. Not for anything. We still need you alive, Georg.”
He hadn’t fully come down from the adrenaline. He was still pale, jaw tight. But he nodded, then kissed her—a deep, hard kiss that said too much at once.
He pulled away, called to a passing maid. “Please fetch Friedrich at the surgery. Urgent. As usual.”
Then, without a word, he led Maria into the study and shut the door.
Georg and Friedrich waited for Kurt and Brigitta to appear. They ignored the officer, the newly minted secretary now supporting his work. They ignored the comings and going.
When the two former prisoners appeared, it was a terrible sight.
Probably the same clothes they had been arrested in, crumpled. Their stares almost absent. They could barely stand up, and walking seemed to cause them terrible pain.
It was so hard for Georg and Friedrich to suppress the instinct to just lash out at everyone, but they weren’t here for that.
Kurt tried to smile. “A little late for my birthday party, but it’ll do.”
Brigitta only uttered, “Please, let’s go home.”
Georg took Brigitta’s arm, with care. She let him, but kept him at a distance. The same happened when Friedrich did the same with Kurt. When they moved or breathed, there was a crackling sound. Their postures were extremely guarded.
Having them get on the car was torture. Georg sat behind with Brigitta, trying to help her stretch. Kurt sat in front, with Friedrich trying to have him as comfortable as possible.
Friedrich knew immediately. “They broke your ribs.”
“They kicked us repeatedly. Stomach. Flanks.”
Friedrich offered, “I can drive slowly. It will take longer, but you will hurt less.”
Kurt explained. “Breathing hurts. We don’t care. Let’s just go home.”
“I should try to have you X-rayed. We will stop at the hospital in Salzburg. My former colleague might just let me do it. And morphine. You need morphine.”
Friedrich started the engine. He decided to first ask the hospital in Linz for morphine; otherwise, especially the part between Vöcklabruck and Gnigl would be like hell for them.
Luckily, money still ruled the world, and his medical licence was completely valid. So, he got the morphine.
When they had left the streets of Linz, Friedrich tried to triage them, before the morphine took over them.
“Was it only kicks? Punches, too?”
Both answered, “Yes.”
“Something else?”
Kurt rolled up a sleeve. “Cigarette burns. Brigitta too.”
“Scheiße.”
“Fucking bastards.”
Friedrich sighed. “Other things? I need to know.” He looked in the rearview mirror, and saw his father brushing Brigitta’s hair. “Brigitta… did they do anything else to you?”
She understood, and found it very thoughtful of him. But Friedrich was thoughtful, always. “No. But I almost wish they did that instead. Hurting with every breath… I swear I wanted to die.”
No one dared comment on it.
The ride went on in silence, stretched by exhaustion. Eventually, Friedrich pulled into St. Johann’s hospital in Salzburg. There, he managed to find a few acquaintances from his rotation who had enough decency—or enough fear—not to ask questions. The letter Georg still carried silenced any residual hesitation.
X-rays confirmed what Friedrich had already suspected: multiple cracked ribs, bruised lungs, and days—if not weeks—of careful recovery ahead. Time they would now have to spend in Austria.
“If one of those ribs punctured a lung, we’d hear it—listen for wheezing or gurgling when they breathe,” Friedrich explained—partly for his father’s benefit, partly to justify his insistence on monitoring.
He examined their arms next. The cigarette burns were few but deliberate—ringed with raw, inflamed skin.
“They didn’t bother cleaning anything. Just lit up and stubbed them out on us like we were ashtrays,” Kurt muttered.
Friedrich’s colleague looked away, embarrassed.
Brigitta added, “Yet another thing that hurts like hell. Accidental burns from smoking are nothing like this.”
Friedrich disinfected the wounds meticulously, muttering under his breath, more to the pain than to the act. Then, as gently as he could, he wrapped their ribcages.
“These bandages stay on for support tonight, but I won’t let them rest too long,” he said firmly. “You’ll need to walk, little by little. Every day.”
He paid out of pocket for morphine and a supply of Prontosil, still rare but available for those with means. “My successor can survive without a full kit,” he murmured later. “I’ll take what I need from my old practice. They’ll need everything I can carry. He’ll order his own supplies.”
It was late by the time they arrived home. Most of the house was asleep. Friedrich roused Dr Steinberg, and Georg Maria, who was still awake, reading and praying in bed.
At the sight of Kurt and Brigitta, Maria sobbed and kissed them both, unafraid of the bandages or the smell. Georg was brushing their heads in silence, his sorrow carefully sealed under layers of restraint.
Dr. Steinberg nodded in agreement with Friedrich’s plan.
“Keep them upright. Too much lying flat and their lungs will drown in fluid. Gentle, regular breaths—even if it hurts.”
“And careful with morphine,” added Georg quietly. “There have been too many horror stories.”
“We’ll also have to watch for fever, confusion—sepsis is a risk, especially with the burns untreated this long. Their vitals are borderline.”
He turned to the others. “Mama, Papa, you must rest. It will be a long way to recovery. Dr Steinberg, the Frau Doktor, and I will watch them in shifts. Just help us get them to bed.”
These were the first days of healing—but also of closure, and of preparing for a daunting new chapter.
Friedrich and the Steinbergs helped Kurt and Brigitta manage their days by caring for them and avoiding excessive lying down or strenuous movement. The Steinbergs saw it not only as a thanks to the family for what they had stood for, but also as a means of repaying them for board and lodging. No one expected it of them, but they felt compelled to give back.
It was also the only way for Dr Steinberg to continue training the young doctor should have been his colleague and successor.
Kurt and Brigitta suffered not only for the pain and the general weakness, but also because of the morphine. Friedrich had gladly given it to them, to lessen the suffering during the drive from Linz, and also to have them rest in the beginning, but the price to pay was known to all of them, especially Georg who remembered from the war how the use of it could destroy a man.
“I remember your books, Papa. The risk of self-medication or unauthorised medication is non-existent. And we will keep alcohol far away from them,” said Friedrich. “The only problem will be withdrawal, but you probably know all about that.”
Georg nodded, resigned.
Friedrich reprised, “I thought of reducing dosage gradually and hoping for the best.”
Georg’s expression darkened. “I most definitely do not look forward to remembering what I had to do as a commander, locking men in a room for two days, guarded, listening to them scream and kick until they stopped begging for morphine.”
But Kurt and Brigitta also showed other symptoms.
The family had to ask everyone and the staff not to slam doors. Boots of any kind were not to be worn inside. And screaming was banned, too. Luckily, Karoline was already old enough to understand, and Thomas was a sweet, gentle boy. However, an almost three-year-old was more difficult to control than a six-year-old, and sometimes even Thomas’s innocent yells caused his siblings nervous reactions.
Martha and Gretl were precious support. They loved keeping the two patients company by making fun of the regime, once they had been authorised to make them laugh again, the pain more manageable.
“At least they are still serious about training secretaries and translations, so apart from the salute and some nonsense about blood purity, my days are still rather normal,” explained Martha. “I mean, can you imagine what would happen if someone mistranslated or mistyped a declaration of war and turned it into an invitation to an international formal affair?”
Between laughter, Kurt said, “That sounds exactly like the kind of things Henry and Liesl would do, if you think about it.”
Gretl’s experience was different. “School is a joke, in part. Some subjects are still taught the same way, but… religion… they are trying not to upset the Church, and yet want to introduce the Führer cult and the blood cult through the backdoor. Saluting is taken almost as serious as Greek verbs. Oh, and I am glad we are moving to England in the summer, because you can forget going out with men now. Either they were Austrofascist, or they are NS, or they are Austrofascists turned NS. I would not even exchange tips about how to pass a Latin text with them now.”
Brigitta was mock-scandalised. “Margarethe von Trapp. A seventeen-year-old eligible lady talking in those terms! Will the world come to an end? Oh, dear, it already did, now that I think of it!”
Kurt smirked. “So, even our little Gretl has now discovered romance—or the other sex. We are getting old!”
“Be honest, Kurt: you and Gitti look forward to giving us advice!”
Brigitta was surprised. “Are we already at that point? Advice?”
Gretl grinned. “I’d say social life in Vienna was definitely livelier than here or elsewhere in Austria. Which makes you two the more sought-after for advice.”
Martha glossed, “Now we are all awaiting Anna’s time to learn about romance.”
Anna’s voice resounded, scaring the four off. “I already know about romance. I read and dream a lot, you know!”
That alone was awkward enough — she had clearly overheard more than they thought. But then Florian’s voice piped up, making it worse. “And why am I excluded? No romance for us knights? Ladies only? Kurt!”
The four elder yelled, “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
Anna and Florian exchanged puzzled looks and shrugged. “Through the door. You didn’t close it!”
A choral “Go to bed!” was the answer to that.
Luckily, Karoline seemed to be less rebel than her older siblings, and more interested in cuddling with Kurt and Brigitta. She did offer to read them stories, and they accepted. Especially good-night tales.
Thomas obviously wanted to cuddle, although he had to be directed not to hurt them, and sang to them.
When Kurt and Brigitta started to look a little more like themselves, and the most critical days were over, Friedrich and Dr Steinberg had an announcement to make at dinner table.
“I have to get back to my plans of leaving the country. The Steinbergs have offered to help with Kurt and Brigitta, and Papa knows what to do if there are any problems with the interruption of morphine, as brutal as those methods were. I have successfully sold my car, too. Now I have to pack and ship what I will not carry myself, then it’s Hamburg via Vienna to pick up my documents at the Embassy.”
Dr Steinberg completed, “We have decided to stay here to help Kurt and Brigitta until they are healed. Then, we will move to Vienna, where we can probably manage to open a surgery, since the Jewish community is larger and we will find enough patients to get by. Then, we will see. Maybe we will leave the country, too. But we cannot stay here and endanger the family. And we definitely cannot continue eating your food, now that you are planning on leaving the country.”
Everyone protested, of course. But everyone knew it was true.
Georg and Maria exchanged a look that meant Now it’s time. Now it becomes official.
Then Georg spoke.
“It is only right, then, that we also announce our plans. The Danube company has been on sale, and I hope to finalise by the summer. I am trying to sell also the Fiume shares. I don’t want us to have anything to do with Hitler’s allies. Frankie and Robert aren’t happy, but Frankie will soon have to do the same. We will also sell our land and only keep the villa and the garden, which we will rent out to the Borromäum.”
Maria picked up where he left. “We will leave the country by the summer, possibly after the end of the school year. Start thinking about what you want to take to England. We cannot take it all. We will ship some of our things, and carry others, but there are limits to what we can bring over. I am sorry, children.”
There was silence, then. Even Thomas, who had only understood he would go to England and play with his nephew George quite often but would see less of the mountains, kept quiet.
Then, one by one, everyone spoke their mind.
“Thank God,” was Gretl’s reaction. “Looking forward to what job Henry will line up for me,” said Martha. The older ones simply expressed how it was the only possible choice, and how they would be with Liesl, Henry, and Louisa again.
But then Florian surprised them all.
“If we’re moving to England… and there’s war… doesn’t that mean Friedrich, Kurt, and I will have to fight? Right, Papa?”
Why would an eight-year-old speak in those terms? Everyone’s heart stopped for a while.
“Who told you such things, Florian?” asked Georg.
“Germany is going to war. They tell us all the time, more or less. And the Hitlerjugend is already preparing. They don’t just play football or volleyball, or hike, Papa. They tell them how to do things to become the soldiers of tomorrow. If we go to England, we will have to fight for England.”
Anna intervened sarcastically. “You are eight, Florian. Even if a war breaks out, the only contribution you could give would be packing sandwiches for the soldiers.”
Karoline, clearly influenced by her sister, added. “I am not sure I would eat a sandwich made by Florian. Unless Resi teaches him.”
If the sarcasm and the more innocent statement made some of the older siblings snicker, Georg and Maria felt so sorry to hear Florian’s words. But it was not a surprise, then, that the regime indoctrinated young people.
“Florian, everyone. I really cannot say whether there will be a war, and where. But I most certainly hope that you, Florian, will not have to fight. As Anna reminded us, you are eight!”
“Will you go back in the Navy, Papa?” asked Florian, his voice trembling.
Maria jumped in before anyone else could, with a tone that left no room for argument—and no shortage of amusement. “He is most certainly NOT going into active service. Over my dead body, and preferably not even then.”
The laughter was genuine—part relief, part defiance, and just enough to let the evening end on something that felt like hope.
The usual irony of fate. A few days later, Franz brought a letter. Ordinary post. No SS, no threats, nothing.
Just a polite invitation, inquiring whether Captain Georg von Trapp would ever consider joining the Kriegsmarine.
Considering Henry’s effort, Georg was rather sure it would remain an invitation. No doubt an attempt by some former comrade-in-arms to flatter him, to seduce him with the potential of the new German Navy.
Nevertheless, they decided to choose the longer route to England. They would travel via Italy and France, to leave the Reich as soon as possible.
Friedrich was ready to depart. Vienna, British Embassy, and from there to Hamburg.
Georg had given him his old Navy trunk to ship some of his things ahead, the old painted wood still bore faded emblems and a long-gone coat of arms, along with the glorious inscription: K.u.K. Kriegsmarine. Georg had covered his name with a plate bearing Friedrich’s name, leaving the surname.
“It was very kind of you, Papa.”
“I… thought I wouldn’t want to leave it here. And it fits your needs. We, as a family, will need a large crate.”
“I heard you are taking your uniforms, too.” He turned to Maria. “And Mama is taking her wedding dress.”
“Anna especially insisted on them, and Liesl supported her in a telegram,” said Georg with a smile. “We’ll ship your trunk for you, Friedrich. Safe travels, my dear son. See you soon in London!”
“Safe travels, Friedrich. Give a kiss to the others for us. But we will meet again soon.”
Everyone hugged him and kissed him. There was no sadness in separating, since it was only for a while; Friedrich only felt his chest ache a little at thinking that he might never see the villa again, or the mountains, or the silhouette of Salzburg from the railway, on the river. But he had said goodbye to the Nordkette in Innsbruck, too, to their home in Pola, first, and in Klosterneuburg, later; to the Erlhof after the war.
Maybe it was the memories he would leave here. Despite the grief of the beginning and of the end, the years in between had been the years where he had grown into his own person, where he had developed his beliefs, where he had had two wonderful role models, and where he had gotten four more siblings.
But he was 26. He still had his whole life ahead. As a doctor in London.
Just past the northern edge of town, the Untersberg disappeared behind a curve in the tracks—and with it, a part of his life.
Notes:
Friedrich is the first to leave the country. How will his journey go? Next chapter will tell us, and I promise I will make up for the darkness of this chapter in it.
Chapter 26: Doctor Doctor, please!
Summary:
Friedrich is ready to begin his new life in London. But is London ready for Friedrich?
Henry, Liesl, and Louisa have done their part-and probably even more than that.
A light-hearted chapter full of comedy and romance.
The rest of the family only appears briefly at the end, but is mentioned throughout the chapter.
Notes:
Check if you have read the previous chapter(s)!
The title refers to UFO's song. I chose it not for the "specific" problem the song is about, but for the general spirit of it, and because Friedrich is a doctor.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Friedrich’s entire family did lean liberal-progressive, with nuances, of course. They cared for the less privileged, and for a fairer world. No doubt.
However, he had to admit that being the brother of an Earl was an immense privilege, and that he was happy to have fewer worries.
It had all started at Southampton. He had the papers from the Embassy, and he knew all he had to say. But passing the border turned out to be far easier—and stranger—than expected.
The officer looked up from his desk with the weary elegance of someone who had once had hope. He examined Friedrich’s papers with the practiced speed of a man who had been thoroughly briefed.
“Ah. The doctor,” he said in a voice smoother than the Channel. “The first member of the family, I suppose. And here I was expecting you to come all together, sailing in on the Victoria and Albert. Disappointed, I must say.”
A pause. A sigh.
“Welcome to His Majesty’s Kingdom. The Right Honourable the Earl of Aldbury sends his warmest regards. Again. And again. And again.”
Friedrich tried to say something polite. The officer raised a hand.
“No need, sir. We’ve been expecting you. And the former fiend turned friend—I will have to hide the arrival of your father from my father. War veteran. You’ll understand. And the charming second wife. And the—” he checked a list “—eight remaining children. Each with full paperwork. And, naturally, an explanation. Or five.”
He reached for the stamp with theatrical reluctance.
“Lord Aldbury has been most helpful in preparing us for this little exodus. Marmalade, promotions, and a handwritten note for the right person for many of us at the Home Office.” A pause, then dryly: “Charming penmanship.”
With a firm thud, he stamped the papers.
“Single file, full smiles, tragic backstories optional but encouraged. Welcome to England, sir. Do enjoy Mayfair. Or Hertfordshire. Or St Bartholomew's Hospital. Or all three of them.”
“I am sorry, what did you say?”
The officer looked at him as if to say You know very well what I said, then called, “Next!”
Liesl, despite her round belly, had organised a small reception at the townhouse: a symbolic affair to welcome her brother, who had endured difficult weeks. It was just for the family.
Little George remembered him immediately and demanded to be picked up right after his Mama and his aunt had kissed the tall, blond man on the cheek.
Henry felt left out. “Oh no. Now my kiss will have to wait, Friedrich.”
“I’m not sure I’ll survive, Henry.” Friedrich’s delivery was, to his credit, entirely credible.
Louisa shook her head, the universal gesture for Grow up.
Liesl, on the other hand, basked in every antic from her charming husband.
She explained the reception. “We prepared some Hertfordshire fare, alongside the usual posh refreshments. You should know most of it already, but we thought it would be a nice touch. Also, it's always good to support our tenants.”
“Speaking of preparing… Henry, did you perchance find me a job already? And did you notify the border office? I had a rather singular… conversation.”
Liesl and Henry exchanged amused glances. “Of course you already have a job at St Bartholomew's. Who do you think we are? We have standards in this family.”
Classic Henry—allergic to mediocrity.
“There will be a notable increase in exquisitely organised charity events for Barts, hosted by moi, both in London and at Haverstone Hall. Just to keep society on its toes. After all, someone must fill the void left by the defection of the Duke of Windsor—who now prefers terrorising shopkeepers in Berchtesgaden when golfing with his new friends at the Berghof.” Liesl said it all with a straight face.
Henry and Louisa caught the reference and grinned.
“Excuse me… what?” Friedrich blinked.
“You’ll understand, Friedrich.” Louisa winked.
“I also had to promise I would never let Louisa work there,” added Henry.
Louisa promptly threw an olive at Henry. She didn’t miss. She picked it up immediately, of course—she would never disrespect the staff.
“What has the London Hospital done to you, then?” Friedrich asked, deadpan.
“They requested an intelligent and stunning blond doctor with a knack for research. And, apparently, for playing cruel tricks on people. Which, I understand, is sometimes a key research skill.”
Henry turned to Louisa. “No Martini, no projectile, hm?”
“Don’t tempt me. I might use a precious heirloom Liesl doesn’t like.”
“I wonder whether England is ready for a full Trapp sibling invasion,” Friedrich said, eyeing his gin fizz. “I’m thrilled we’ll all be together again… though I admit we can be a bit much for the uninitiated.” He then turned to his older sister. “Liesl, how is this pregnancy going? I haven’t even asked. Sorry.”
“Friedrich, you’ve had enough to carry. No need to apologise. I feel fine. I think I inherited our mother Agathe’s luck, after all.”
Henry cut in—partly out of genuine concern for Elisabeth, partly because he’d almost forgotten something important.
“Oh! Friedrich, I nearly forgot. There’s a lovely flat in Hampstead—someone from Barts is looking to sell. You might want to see it. Also, I’ve arranged a favourable deal for a 1938 Rolls-Royce Wraith. The very picture of luxury and understated elegance.”
Liesl and Louisa exchanged knowing smirks.
“What would we do without you, Henry?” Friedrich chuckled.
“That,” Henry said without missing a beat, “is what everyone should be asking themselves.”
Friedrich’s first day at St Bartholomew's Hospital—or Barts, as Henry, Liesl, and especially Louisa called it—had finally arrived.
“This is Dr Friedrich von Trapp, our new colleague, from Austria. Fled the Nazis. Completed a year in hospital rotations and another in general practice. Published a paper on post-partum infections during his training, co-authored with his sister, Dr Louisa von Trapp—also here in London, though at the London Hospital. He’ll be rotating between internal medicine and surgery. Let’s make him feel welcome.”
He was introduced to several elderly doctors, a few his age or slightly older, and a group of nurses. Friedrich was quietly relieved the man had skipped the part about his kinship with Lord Aldbury.
The head physician’s voice echoed slightly in the high-ceilinged room. Friedrich nodded politely at the sea of faces, a mix of curiosity and professional appraisal. He was quickly steered towards a bustling ward, the air thick with the metallic tang of antiseptic and the rhythmic rustle of starched uniforms. A stern-faced but kind-eyed senior nurse, Sister Thompson, showed him the bewildering array of charts hanging at the end of each bed. He diligently tried to decipher the spidery handwriting.
As he followed a registrar on his rounds, a young nurse seemed to materialize beside them, her cheeks a delicate pink. “Dr von Trapp,” she began, her voice a little breathy, “could you possibly show me… the location of the… uh… the small dressings trolley? I seem to have misplaced it.” The trolley was clearly visible just a few feet away. Friedrich, focused on the registrar’s explanation of a particularly complex case of pneumonia, simply pointed towards it with a polite, “It’s over there, nurse.” His smile, offered freely as he was used to do, was the young nurse’s reward.
Later, as he navigated a narrow corridor, a trolley laden with instruments seemed to veer sharply in his direction, narrowly missing his shins. “Oh, I am so terribly sorry, Doctor!” exclaimed a nurse with wide, apologetic eyes, her hand lingering on his arm for a fraction too long before she hurried away, a faint smile playing on her lips.
“No harm done,” he said cheerfully, utterly missing the hopeful look she shot over her shoulder as she walked away.
Friedrich, for his part, remained blissfully unaware of the fluttering pulses and discreet sideways glances that followed him through the corridors of Barts.
British women, he thought, were so admirably professional—always polite, always efficient.
He kept not seeing the swooning, not noticing the flirtation veiled in clipped tones and raised eyebrows, and simply kept working.
The Hampstead house was a handsome Georgian building with ivy climbing its red-brick façade and discreet garden lamps lining the driveway. A pair of oaks stood like sentries near the door, and beyond them, a garden manicured but not sterile. The neighbourhood charmed him immediately. Between the heath and the easy commute, he thought he might miss Austria a little less.
As a bachelor, he didn’t exactly need an entire house, but he thought he might like the room to host his family, the old gang of Liesl’s and new friends… and who knew, maybe he would find someone to love, one day. So why waste money on rent when he could afford a nice house with a garden? Even Louisa was considering moving out of the Haverstones’ townhouse.
In the end, it felt right. He bought the house. And, why not, the 1938 Rolls-Royce Wraith too. Kurt and Brigitta would go wild for it.
And so began Friedrich’s new life in London, with long days at Barts and occasional weekends in Hertfordshire, where Liesl and Henry welcomed him with open arms—and Henry’s sarcastic letters continued unabated. The famous letter to the Duke of Windsor was read aloud several times, and would be re-read upon the arrival of the rest of the family.
In the evenings, he sometimes joined the old gang—now a little smaller, thinned by marriages and children. Soho nights had become rarer (especially with Liesl now pregnant), replaced by cozier evenings in parlours, flats, or at the Haverstones’ or the Mattishalls’ townhouse, with more sherry and less shouting.
On other nights, he found himself drawn into Louisa’s circles—her colleagues from the London Hospital, a mix of keen young doctors and jaded researchers. Louisa kept up her usual blend of mockery, affection, and exaggerated praise for her brother, making sure he was welcome. They particularly enjoyed hearing stories of her childhood pranks and tricks played on unsuspecting governesses.
He hoped he might one day have his own circle of friends at Barts—at least someone to share a late cup of tea with.
One morning, Friedrich was called to a bedside consultation. Several doctors were gathered, including a senior consultant and two registrars. Friedrich stood to the side, notebook in hand, ready to contribute if needed.
He had started to feel more at ease with British ward routines—more clipped, more cautious than he was used to—but at least he no longer fumbled at the tea trolley or called Matron “Sister.”
The senior consultant began. “So: persistent fever, fatigue, and a productive cough that hasn’t resolved with rest. Chest X-ray confirms lower lobe consolidation. I'm inclined to begin sulphonamides immediately.”
One of the younger doctors spoke up. “His breathing seems slightly better today. Perhaps close monitoring and oxygen therapy might suffice?”
The consultant shook his head. “We can't risk a delay. A small improvement doesn't rule out worsening infection.”
As they spoke, a nurse had entered, balancing a tray with instruments and medication. Friedrich noticed her—Nurse Cleese. Quiet, quick, observant.
He remembered Louisa saying, bitterly, that you could be the cleverest woman on the ward and still be talked over by boys with half your training. It had stuck.
“Excuse me, doctors,” Nurse Cleese said. “I’ve been with Mr Harding most of the morning. He said he feels less pain lying on his right side, and breathes better if he’s propped up with an extra pillow.”
The consultant didn’t even look at her. “Thank you, Nurse, but we’re discussing the clinical picture, not comfort measures.”
Another registrar chimed in. “Yes—let’s not get distracted by the furniture.”
Friedrich’s mouth tightened. He’d seen it before—dismissal wrapped in politeness. And he'd had enough of that smug tone used for women who dared speak up.
He stepped forward slightly. “With respect, sir—Nurse Cleese has spent more time at the bedside than any of us. Her observations may well reflect clinical changes.”
The consultant raised a brow. “We appreciate our nurses, Dr von Trapp, but they are not diagnosticians.”
“No,” said Friedrich, voice calm but firm. “But that doesn’t make them irrelevant. You don’t need a medical degree to notice a shift in breathing patterns. Or to be right.”
He added, without much softness: “And there’s no reason to dismiss someone’s words simply because she’s a woman.”
There was a silence. The consultant, clearly annoyed, gave a curt nod. “Very well. Nurse, continue.”
Nancy Cleese blinked.
She’d spent weeks trying not to notice the handsome new doctor—tall, serious, hair like some disobedient archangel. A man who probably read Greek for fun and never forgot anyone’s name.
She had admired from a distance and then decided not to bother. Men that beautiful were rarely kind. And almost never useful.
But now he was standing there, calmly handing her the floor like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, Doctor. The sputum this morning was thicker than yesterday. Slightly rust-coloured, and the patient said it tasted metallic.”
Friedrich nodded thoughtfully. “That may suggest haemoptysis starting. Thank you.”
Nancy gave a small nod in return, aware her ears had turned pink. She felt seen. Not flirted with, not patronised—just heard.
That, she decided, was even more dangerous.
Friedrich was ambushed at the end of his shift.
It was Nurse Cleese, the one he had defended earlier. Now without her cap, she looked startlingly different: beautiful brown hair tumbling free, lovely green eyes, and a scatter of endearing freckles across her nose and cheeks.
She had been waiting for him, fiddling with the hem of her apron. He’d noticed she only did that when she was either furious or flustered. And she certainly didn’t look furious.
“It was very kind of you, to defend me like that.”
Friedrich was abruptly grateful that nurses wore uniforms with those ridiculous hats. If she had looked like this during the shift, he might not have gotten anything done. Kurt would mock him for years, he knew that.
He smiled, willing himself to keep it cordial. “I have seven sisters, and a mother, and they are all amazing. It taught me not to be an... well, I think you call them ‘arseholes,’ same as in German. I don't consider women inferior, or something made for a man's amusement. And I know you have far more experience than we young doctors.”
Nancy smiled—no, beamed—at him, a warm, dazzling thing that made Friedrich's heart feel uncomfortably light. It was... gratitude, surely. Professional appreciation. Nothing more.
But she was also curious. “Seven sisters?”
“Oh, yes. And three brothers. Also, actually, two mothers, one might say. My family is rather… extraordinary.”
Another smile, slower this time, tugging at the corner of her mouth. Friedrich found himself studying her freckles, ridiculous man that he was. The imaginary Kurt in his head was practically doing somersaults with laughter.
“Oh,” she said, voice soft, “I suppose your father must have been widowed. I'm sorry.”
“Well, yes. But it’s a long and complicated story. We are all very happy, though. No sorrow there.”
She tilted her head, looking at him intently—and smiling again. It was a smile that seemed to ask a question he wasn’t sure he dared answer.
“Since you’ve been so kind… and since you have a story to tell…” she said, with a playful lightness, “would you let me invite you to tea? Name’s Nancy, by the way.”
“Oh — well, that’s awfully kind of you. I’m Friedrich.”
They shook hands. Her fingers were slim and cool against his. And she smiled at him again — this time, a flash of teeth, an unmistakable sparkle in her eye that made Friedrich’s brain stutter.
Was it... flirtation?
No, surely not. She was simply friendly. Grateful. Nurses were often warm-hearted by nature or by training.
He followed her to a nearby tea room, trying—and failing—not to watch the gentle sway of her hips.
Nancy casually picked up the conversation. “So, Friedrich, why is your English this good? You are not the stereotypical German.” She looked at him sideways, a smile playing on her lips.
“Well, first of all, I’m Austrian,” he replied with a grin, “and second: my birth mother was half-English, and we grew up in a rather multilingual context. My oldest sister is married to an Englishman, and my younger sister is a doctor here in London too.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Your… birth mother?”
“Oh, yes. We love our ‘new mother’, so we always refused to call her ‘stepmother’, and we have lots of unconventional ways to distinguish between them, if needed.”
“So, you are all rather unconventional. Not just you.”
“I am unconventional?”
“Men who believe women are their equals are not exactly standard, you know.”
“Oh… well, yes, I know. As I said, it comes from being one from our Trapp branch. You should meet my father and my brothers. Aunt Hede too, now that I think of it.”
She leaned in rather close, and touched his sleeve. “I am rather satisfied with the Trapp I have in front of me, for now, but thanks.” Her lingering smile made him ask himself questions he wasn’t sure he should answer while sitting in a tea room near the hospital.
“Well, I suppose that was a compliment, yes,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “Thanks. You know, I really don’t understand why men refuse to treat women as… people? Isn’t it nice to sit here and just talk, knowing that I am here to do just that? To talk. I’m not here because I want to bed you. That would be a horrible thing.”
Nancy’s eyes went wide open.
Friedrich first thought she was scandalised by him saying “to bed you”. Then he realised what he had implied. His face flushed red.
“Oh… oh… I am sorry… I mean… I am not saying bedding you would be horrible or that you are horrible… oh, I am making this even worse…”
Nancy burst out laughing. “Oh, dear, no, no. You are doing just fine, believe me!”
“Oh… am I? Really? Anyway, I just meant I value people, and I am interested in talking to women. But you are… lovely, really. I didn’t mean that… I suppose men would definitely be interested… oh, dear, I really should stop talking.” It was like watching a carriage hurtle downhill, brakes broken, with himself helplessly tied to the reins. And the imaginary Kurt in his head rolling on the floor laughing.
Her laughter softened, and she leaned in a little, her voice teasing. “Don’t stop, Friedrich. Keep talking. Medicine, your family, or just your unfiltered thoughts. I think I like listening to you, too.”
Friedrich tried to regain his faculties—not easy, between her cleverness, her loveliness, and his terrible managing of the conversation. Nancy’s expression was unreadable, but that enigmatic smile was still there, pulling at him, urging him forward. He decided to tell her about Louisa first, the other doctor of the family, and to tell her about his family, avoiding the entire baronetcy – war hero father – Countess sister part.
Nancy told him about her, in turn. “I am from Woking. Dad’s a retired clerk, Mom’s a seamstress. I have two younger brothers—one and three years younger than me— so I have had my experience dealing with males of all kind. You know, them, their friends. Same as you with seven sisters and two mothers, although I suspect you are probably fonder of your sisters than I am of my impossible brothers.”
“How old are you?” Friedrich managed to blush again at such a simple question.
“Twenty-three. And you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“You are very young for such a decided doctor.”
“I never had to worry about working. And, as I said, my family is very supportive.”
“So, you are a toff, are you? I suspected so.”
“It’s on me, you know. Because I am a toff, as you say,” Friedrich grin. “Order to your heart’s content.”
“See? You are not doing bad at all, Friedrich. Just be careful because some women would exploit you.”
“And you will not?”
“I am a nurse. I like helping people, not robbing them. Although… I had considered robbery as an alternate career when things seemed difficult.”
“So, a sort of Bonnie and Clyde thing?”
“Are you offering yourself as a Clyde, Friedrich?” That smile again. Oh, dear.
Why was he always blurting out things without thinking? “Well… I had my moments. Not robbery, but I did get into trouble with every Austrian governments since 1933. Fisticuffs and other rebellions. No Bonnie by my side, though. Only my brother Kurt and my older sisters with me. Oh, and my parents’ moral support, although they definitely didn’t like our brawl with a bunch of fascists… long story, I will have to tell you that.”
“An antifascist toff. That’s very unconventional.”
“Speaking of unconventional: why did you become a nurse?”
“A nurse is one of the most conventional female careers, Friedrich. I chose it because it seemed to be like it gave a little more of purpose to my life—compared to the grocer’s counter, for example— and I ended up loving helping people. The satisfaction of doing the right thing for a patient, the relief to see them healthy again, the feeling that, even when things go wrong, you might still save someone.”
Friedrich smiled. “It’s the same reason I became a doctor. My mother helped me a lot, though, insisting that I must find a purpose in my life. I first became curious through my father’s books about the Great War, then it became something else.” But then he understood something about Nancy. “But it sounds to me like you would have been a great doctor. It’s a pity, really.”
“As you can imagine, it was not an option. Not the daughter of a toff. And it’s not too bad, really. We work so much with patients.”
“Still a pity. My mother was involved in charity, and even created a scholarship for working-class children to pursue their studies.”
“Friedrich, you are awfully kind, and I admire you and your family, but I am truly happy. I have been working for a while, earning my own money, living with other nurses, loving what I do. I would definitely support any scholarship for young women who wanted to go into medicine on a political level, but I don’t need to be pitied, and I definitely don’t need a scholarship.”
“I will have to believe it, I suppose. But if you ever change your mind…”
Nancy smiled, something playful tinging the gentleness. “Friedrich, really… I have plans for my future that definitely do not involve studying at university.”
They talked for a little while longer, but as the conversation wore on, Nancy stood up, breaking the easy rhythm they’d fallen into.
“I would stay longer, but it’s my turn tidying up in our lodging,” she said, flashing him another one of those smiles that made his chest tighten. “Next time, though, maybe you could take me to dinner?”
Friedrich wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly. “Oh… certainly. Actually, I should’ve invited you already… where are my manners?”
She raised a brow at him, the mischievous glint back in her eyes. “Doesn’t seem to be our way of doing things, Friedrich.”
He was about to apologize when she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips—brief and daring. He blinked once, stunned—then the floodgates broke. His heart was suddenly pounding, his pulse erratic—it felt like something inside him snapped.
Without thinking, his hands found her waist, pulling her close, the moment stretching, drawing him deeper into the connection. He kissed her again, this time more urgently, his lips pressing firmly against hers. The heat of the kiss was instant, an all-consuming fire that seemed to melt the distance between them.
His heart was hammering in his chest, the desire he’d been pushing aside from the beginning of their conversation crashing over him like a wave. He forced himself to keep his hands respectful, only exploring a little bit of the curve of her back, and put all of his incredible attraction to her in his breathtaking kiss. She responded, her own hands threading through his hair, which she adored, but kept herself under control, sensing he was of those rather proper kind of gentlemen who didn’t want to cross too many boundaries.
Although this proper toff definitely knew how to kiss a girl.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless and aching, her lips were swollen, and her eyes gleamed with something unreadable.
“I didn’t expect that,” she murmured, though the smile on her lips hinted she might have been waiting for it.
Friedrich swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Neither did I,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with unspent desire.
“You are a good kisser, Friedrich.” She gave him another peck. “I look forward to dinner.”
“What about cinema? You know, for another date.”
“Dinner on Saturday, cinema on Sunday? I hope you are free.”
“I’m free,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Friedrich drove up in his gleaming 1938 Rolls-Royce Wraith. As he pulled up to the nurses' lodging, he caught sight of Nancy waiting by the door, her silhouette framed by the evening light.
Upon arriving at the lodging, however, the other nurses were gathered by the door, all anxious to see the dashing new doctor from Austria and their dear friend Nancy together. She told them to behave; he thought he should have prepared for such a thing, but tried not to get nervous yet. He was here for her, not for the others.
He stepped out, opening the door for her with a flourish. “Your chariot awaits, milady,” he teased, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.
Nancy raised an eyebrow and shot him a sly smile. “You know, I’ve never been driven in something quite so… grand,” she said, allowing him to help her into the car.
The other nurses watched Nancy and Friedrich’s interaction with sharp, teasing eyes.
“Oh, Nancy, someone’s looking posh tonight!” one of the nurses called out with a wink. Another giggled. “Better watch out, Nancy, or you’ll be swept away by this dashing doctor.”
Nancy shot them an exasperated look, but Friedrich chuckled, miraculously unfazed by their teasing. He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek before she disappeared into the car.
“Enjoy your evening,” he said, though his eyes were already on her, a silent promise of what was to come.
Inside the spacious, plush interior, the air felt charged, though they exchanged light conversation.
At dinner, Nancy looked stunning in a simple yet elegant dress. Friedrich, for all his focus on her, couldn’t help but notice the way she would glance at him from under her lashes, her lips curling into little smiles as they ate. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, sometimes veering into flirty territory, sometimes more serious, but always with an underlying tension.
She leaned in slightly as they discussed an amusing case from work, her eyes dancing with excitement. “I think if I had been there, I’d have done something totally different,” she said, her hand resting lightly on the edge of the table.
Friedrich chuckled. “I wouldn’t be surprised. You seem to always know what you’re doing.”
Nancy smirked, her gaze lingering on him. “I know exactly what I’m doing, Friedrich,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper.
That night, after the meal, they went for a walk through the quiet, dimly lit streets. The air was cool, the atmosphere intimate. As they walked side by side, Friedrich’s hand subtly found its way to her waist, pulling her closer, his fingertips brushing the fabric of her dress.
Nancy didn’t pull away. Instead, she let him guide her, and when they paused by a quiet streetlamp, Friedrich leaned in. His kiss was deep, slow, savouring her lips. His hands moved to the small of her back, pressing her closer as though he couldn't get enough of her. She responded, eager, her breath mingling with his.
The following evening, Friedrich picked Nancy up once again, always in the Wraith, for their cinema date. As he opened the door for her, she looked up at him with a mischievous grin.
“You know, you’re really spoiling me, Friedrich,” she said, sliding into the car, her fingers brushing his hand as she settled in.
The film was charming, but both of them were distracted. The tension between them had only grown since their last kiss, and as the credits rolled, Friedrich walked her back to the car. The cool night air felt electric between them.
As he helped her inside the car again, their gazes locked, and before he could even think, Friedrich’s lips found hers. This kiss was different—more heated, more urgent, but still holding a restraint he couldn’t seem to break. His hands were on her upper back, fingers pressing into the smooth fabric of her dress as he held her close.
Nancy pulled back just slightly, her breath ragged, her voice soft with frustration. “Friedrich… please,” she whispered, her eyes dark with desire. “I need you to touch me...”
Friedrich’s grip tightened, but he didn’t move his hands lower. He pulled back slowly, his gaze flickering over her face. “Not yet,” he whispered, his voice strained with barely contained desire. “I’m not rushing this.”
Nancy’s eyes darkened, a silent frustration simmering in the way she clenched her fists at her sides. “You’re driving me mad,” she muttered under her breath, but he heard it all the same.
He smiled, but there was something almost apologetic in his expression. “I know, Nancy. Believe me. I know.”
The sterile, bustling environment of St Bartolomew’s Hospital was a sharp contrast to the electric tension between Friedrich and Nancy. The hospital, with its towering, grand architecture, was filled with the hurried sounds of nurses’ shoes clicking on the polished floors, the low murmur of doctors discussing cases, and the occasional screech of a trolley being wheeled down the corridors.
Friedrich had always prided himself on his professionalism, on his ability to separate his personal life from his studies and work. But that was before Nancy.
Today, he found himself distracted, his attention constantly flicking towards her as they worked in the same ward. It was a busy morning, and the ward was full of patients, but every time he caught a glimpse of her, whether it was the way she handled a patient with delicate care or the way her hair fell softly around her face, something inside him stirred.
At one point, Nancy approached him with a clipboard in hand, her steps light but purposeful. She began discussing a patient's progress, but Friedrich found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on her words. His eyes drifted from the notes on the clipboard to her lips, and then to her hands, which were so skilfully adjusting the patient’s bed.
“Dr von Trapp?” she said softly, her voice drawing his attention back to the present.
“Hmm?” he replied, snapping back to the conversation.
“You’re… not listening,” she teased, a faint smile on her lips.
Friedrich cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. “Apologies, Nurse Cleese. I’m just trying to...,” he trailed off, searching for the right words. “It's been a long morning, I suppose.”
Nancy didn’t buy it. She arched an eyebrow. “A long morning, huh? You look a little... distracted.”
For a moment, there was a spark of something between them, something unspoken, but Friedrich quickly cleared his throat, trying to mask his unease. “Just the usual... workload.”
She glanced at him knowingly, leaning in slightly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I think it’s something more,” she said, her voice lower, teasing.
Friedrich stiffened, turning his attention back to the patient’s chart. He couldn't help but feel the heat rising in his cheeks. “That’s… that’s irrelevant,” he said curtly, but his voice lacked its usual authoritative edge.
Nancy chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the effect she had on him. “Whatever you say, Dr von Trapp,” she replied, but there was a trace of something more in her tone, something that suggested she might know exactly what was going on in his mind.
As she walked away, Friedrich let out a slow breath, trying to regain his composure. He had to focus. But as he resumed his rounds, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Nancy was always just a step ahead of him—playing the game with a smile, while he found himself struggling to maintain his professional distance.
Kurt and Louisa would mock him for eternity, if they ever knew.
The invitation to join Henry, Liesl, Louisa, and the others for the evening came as a welcome distraction, though Friedrich had little enthusiasm for it on that specific day. Although a social person, he rarely shared personal thoughts, and he had a lot of personal thoughts these days. The others didn’t mind, of course, although they loved to needle him—beloved by women as he was, and yet no juicy gossip to share, ever.
Liesl, nearing her due date and radiating that glow only pregnancy could bring, leaned back in her chair, her laughter carrying across the table as she and Henry exchanged playful banter. The rest of the group—Louisa, the gang, and their various partners—were absorbed in their own conversations, but Friedrich felt out of place. His mind wasn’t with them; it was elsewhere.
He sipped his drink in silence, nodding occasionally when someone addressed him. He knew they didn’t guess what was really on his mind. They simply thought he was... well, Friedrich: reserved, only vague statements about his life, and a few moments of brooding here and there, alternating with his more cheerful moments.
The only problem was that the brooding seemed to prevail that night.
“Friedrich, you’re awfully quiet tonight,” Henry remarked, breaking the quiet atmosphere.
Friedrich lifted his gaze, offering a brief, polite smile. “Just tired,” he said, the words vague and noncommittal, though his tone didn’t carry the usual weight of exhaustion. It was a soft excuse, but one he had perfected.
Liesl, with an affectionate smile, approached him. “It’s difficult to adapt to a new country, is it? Or are you still worried about the rest of the family?”
Friedrich simply shrugged and said, “A little bit of both,” not bothering to correct her. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either.
Despite the lively chatter around him, Friedrich remained apart, his thoughts tethered elsewhere—always, inevitably, to Nancy. His fingers drummed absently on his glass, betraying his otherwise composed exterior. He was aware of the way his chest tightened when he thought of her. He was aware of everything—too aware—but he kept the mask in place.
Louisa, ever the one to needle, noticed his silence. “You’ve got that look again, Friedrich. Something weighing you down? You know you can talk to us.”
Friedrich’s eyes flicked to her for a moment, then back to his drink. “It’s nothing.”
Liesl chuckled softly, resting a hand on her rounded belly. “It’s always ‘nothing’ with you, Friedrich. You should try letting us in on it sometime. You can’t always carry the weight of everything by yourself.”
But Friedrich only smiled faintly and shrugged again, deflecting. There hadn’t been words with Nancy, to define what that would or could be. So, it was nobody’s business, for now.
The evening continued, but Friedrich remained an enigma to them all. As much as he tried to hide it, his mind kept returning to Nancy, and the gnawing feeling of something just beyond his reach.
He continued seeing Nancy after work, for talks and walks, and on dates, even though their hospital schedule sometimes made it difficult for him to invite her to all the things he wanted her to try.
He did manage to invite her to sail on the Thames, courtesy of one of the companies his father—or better, the entire family—had shares in.
But he found time to discuss with her even a few serious issues.
During one of their informal tea room meeting, he told her the entire story of his final year as a medical student up until his decision to flee Austria: from saving Mama after Thomas’s birth, to failing to save the Steinbergs, and refusing to practice medicine under the swastika.
“I am so sorry, Friedrich. As you can imagine, we definitely don’t like fascism in my family, but I am not as competent in these things as your family. Don’t expect me to say anything particularly intellectual about it. It says a lot about you, leaving the surgery instead of taking advantage of what the Nazis did to the Jews. And… as for saving the Steinbergs… even if you and your entire family had refused to let them go, they would have imprisoned or killed you all.” She took his hand and squeezed it tenderly. “You already risked enough. I just hope the rest of your family gets out in time.”
“They are on their way. Or at least, we hope so.”
“Also, if more people had reacted like you did… things would be different. We English, for our part, kicked Mosley’s arse several times. I also remember—early on—an Earl and a Countess crashing one of his events and making fun of him. Pioneers, really. Wouldn’t have expected it of a peer.”
Friedrich cleared his throat. “Charming.” He knew those peers very well, but Nancy still didn’t know that. “We’ve always admired England—for many reasons. I’m sure we’ll be safe here. I just hope my family hurries. Kurt and Brigitta have already risked too much, but they want to help Papa and Mama with the younger ones. They are not taking everything, but they are trying to take enough to avoid to have the younger ones feel like they are being uprooted.”
“Are you sure they don’t risk much staying this long? It seems to me like you are all rather… well… hot-headed? Prone to react?”
“I trust they will change their minds if they see the situation is too dangerous. But I really don’t think Berlin wants martyrs at this point. Kurt and Brigitta opposed the SS, and were delivered to the Gestapo for what was a serious disobedience. Nevertheless, we managed to have them released, although their conditions were… what they were.”
Nancy threaded her fingers with his. “You are still my favourite Trapp, you know, but I am really curious to meet the rest of your family. Not just because it means they are safe, but also because you must all be very interesting.”
Friedrich finally managed to invite Nancy for dinner and dancing, as he had long wished to.
Once again, he was the perfect gentleman: elegant, picking her up with his Rolls-Royce. But this time… this time, Friedrich wanted to risk more. He knew he would go mad if he didn’t tell her how he felt, but he seemed to be a disaster with words as of late.
“These are for you,” and he gave her a bunch of red roses with a polite bow—his father’s lessons, of course.
Nancy blushed. “Red roses? Do you know what they mean?”
“As you know, I have seven sisters, with varying degrees of love for romance. Two of them, especially, live for romance.” Friedrich blushed, too. “I am well-versed in the language of flowers.”
Nancy threw her arms around him and kissed him. Not deeply, but just enough to let him know how she felt.
“Now, take me to dance. I am very eager to be in your arms.”
At dinner, Nancy teasingly asked, “So, which of your sisters should I thank for the roses?”
“The roses were my idea. But the most obsessed with romance, balls, and so on are Elisabeth—Liesl, the one married to an Englishman, two years older than me—and Anna, ten years old. The only one who seems dismissive of romance is Louisa.”
“Your Irish twin!” Nancy winked.
“That was a rather Anglican thing to say, I am told!”
“I always forget you are a Papist!”
“You know, sometimes I fear you are not saying it jokingly, as Henry does.”
“Are you sure Henry jokes?”
“He is a very nice guy; I am sure of it. Anyway, we personally don’t care about the Pope either. More about Christianity. Values, love. Oh, and divorce. We do not divorce, ever. Not sure whether the Nazis will change that in Austria. Looks like that, to be honest.”
“Only you, Friedrich von Trapp, could manage to steer the conversation towards divorce. And that after giving me red roses!” Nancy covered her mouth to stifle her giggles.
“I would have said it would be reassuring for you. That we take things seriously. Do you feel threatened instead?”
“Oh, I know Dr Very Proper takes things seriously.”
“Only where it matters," he said softly. "Otherwise, I can be very reckless.”
Nancy arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
He leaned a fraction closer across the table, dropping his voice. “You'll have to dance with me to find out.”
As they moved together, Friedrich kept the perfect, polite frame expected of a gentleman—yet Nancy could feel the tension beneath it, the way his hand at her waist was careful, but not indifferent. His touch was firm, steady, and it set her heart racing more than any overt caress could have done.
“You’re quite serious about dancing too, Dr Very Proper,” she teased lightly.
He smiled, but his eyes, meeting hers, were not teasing at all.
“About dancing... and about you.”
Nancy felt a delicious shiver run through her, hidden behind a bright laugh.
Back at the car, he opened the door for her, then hesitated, his hand resting lightly against the frame.
“There’s something I’d like to show you,” he said, his voice almost boyishly eager now. “If you don’t mind a detour before I take you home.”
Nancy tilted her head, amused. “A secret?"
He smiled shyly. “Family photographs. I thought... maybe you’d like to see where I come from. And I would like to show you.”
She pretended to consider, hiding her own sudden rush of anticipation under a teasing grin. “Only if you promise not to be too reckless, Dr Very Proper.”
Friedrich laughed, a little unsteady but warm. “Papist’s honour.”
Nancy leaned back in the leather seat of the Rolls-Royce, the soft hum of the engine and the faint scent of roses still clinging to her senses.
He thought he was taking her to see photographs.
Photographs.
Bless him.
He had no idea.
Nancy bit her lip to stop herself from smiling too broadly. She would let him show her the pictures, of course—she was genuinely curious about the large and extraordinary family behind the gentleman — but after that?
After that, it would be up to her to make it clear that some moments in life were meant to be lived, not just remembered in albums.
She glanced sideways at him, at the strong line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the occasional, endearing glance he shot her way when he thought she wasn't looking.
No, Friedrich von Trapp was not repressed. Just... waiting for permission.
Tonight, she'd make very sure he knew he had it.
The Rolls purred to a stop before a large Georgian house in Hampstead. Nancy recognised the neighbourhood, old and popular among the rich. Well, that wasn’t a surprise. Tailored clothes, Rolls, impeccable manners.
“Nice place,” she said lightly, stepping out as Friedrich came around to open her door.
He flushed a little, almost as if he were apologizing for it. “It’s not too grand, I hope. I like it very much. So different from my homeland.”
Nancy laughed under her breath. “Oh, darling, this is what most Englishmen dream of. Even the rich ones.”
He offered his arm, and she took it. Inside, the house was tastefully luxurious — polished wood, muted carpets, heavy curtains—but not ostentatious. It felt... lived in, despite how new it must be to him. A fire crackled gently in the hearth of the sitting room, throwing warm light across a set of silver-framed photographs spread out carefully on a side table.
“I thought I would finally show you,” he said, a little shyly. “There is still much I have to tell you about my family.”
Nancy smiled. “I’m ready for all the revelations.”
There were a few other photos hanging from the wall, but Friedrich—always a thorough one—also picked up a box.
Nancy looked at the two hanging pictures. One was of a handsome man and woman —the woman dressed very much like at the beginning of the century; long, probably dark brown hair, tied up in an intricate coiffure— and of seven children, the youngest one a baby.
Obviously Friedrich’s ‘birth mother’, as he called her. Agathe. She saw Friedrich immediately. An endearingly beautiful boy, his hair almost white. But the entire family seemed to come from an artist’s stroke.
The other picture showed the very same handsome man with a different woman, this time dressed in modern clothing. A more modern woman all around: hair only slightly nearing her shoulders, blond and with huge light eyes—blue, if she had to guess. His second wife, and the Mama Friedrich talked about most of the time. Maria. This time there were… well, she could count thirteen more people besides the couple. Seven had to be the original seven children, then she tried to guess which were the four youngest Trapps. Friedrich was endearingly holding a small child. But there was a couple sitting, holding a baby. The couple looked very familiar.
“Friedrich, you’ll have to help me here. Who is who here? Also, this looks like England.”
“Hertfordshire, two years ago.” He told her all the names, up until the sitting couple with the baby. “These are Liesl and Henry with their firstborn, George, two years old.”
“Is it illegal to be unattractive in your family?”
Friedrich simply laughed.
“You know, Liesl and Henry look familiar.”
“Well, they live in England.”
“You said Hertfordshire.”
“That’s just their estate. They have a townhouse in Mayfair, too.”
“So, even your English brother-in-law has an estate! And is a toff!”
Friedrich showed her two more pictures. His father’s wedding days pictures.
“In this one, Papa was twenty-two, and in the other thirty-nine.”
“Friedrich, why is your father wearing a full-dress uniform… in the second one, with lots of decorations?”
“Because he was a naval officer in the Imperial and Royal Navy. And yes, he was a war hero. Not something I should tell an Englishwoman, though, since he sank many English ships.”
“And he became rich by plundering our ships, or what?”
“No, no… his father was a knight. He got the title of Baron by his merits. And my mother Agathe, the half-English one, is the granddaughter of the inventor of the torpedo. Oh, and our family still owns the factory in Fiume.”
Nancy was flabbergasted. “That… explains a few things. And you are still antifascist? Despite all this?”
“My father will love England’s constitutional monarchy, I believe. My mother Maria, on the other hand, comes from the working class. But I already told you that.”
She looked at the other pictures. “Oh, this must be Henry and Liesl’s wedding… wait, is that King Edward VIII with you in the photo?”
“Oh, yes. He was a little bit of disappointment when he started flirting with Hitler, but in the beginning, according to Henry, he was a nice chap as Prince of Wales. Henry is a little bit eccentric, and the two liked each other very much for a while. Now, as you can imagine, things have changed.”
Nancy stared at Friedrich. “I suppose Henry does not just have an estate, and probably does not have an occupation.”
“He actually takes his seat at the House of Lords very seriously, as well as the management of his estate.”
“So, what is Henry’s name, and your sister’s now?”
“Henry Haverstone, Earl of Aldbury, and Elisabeth Haverstone, Countess of Aldbury. You know, the two who crashed that BUF meeting you remember…”
“Oh, dear! You are not just a toff. You are an aristo! Connected to aristos!”
“And all very nice, and antifascist. I hope you are not fazed by my background.”
Nancy stared at him for a long moment—at his slightly mussed hair, his awkward posture, the way he fiddled nervously with the box lid.
It wasn’t the estates, the titles, or even the photo with a king. It was him—awkward, blushing, stupidly noble Friedrich—that made her feel on fire.
Without a word, she gently took the box from Friedrich’s hands and put it on the floor, then grabbed his tie, and straddled his lap pushing him gently back into the leather chair.
He gave a startled little grunt—too polite to resist, too enchanted to even think of doing so.
Nancy started undoing his tie with slow, wicked fingers.
Friedrich swallowed hard.
“Shouldn’t we... shouldn’t we wait until... until our wedding night?” he managed.
Nancy cocked an eyebrow at him, smiling like a cat about to eat a very delicious, very willing mouse.
“That’s a weird way to propose, Friedrich,” she said, tugging his tie free. “But honestly, I should have known from our first date that you wouldn’t do anything conventionally.”
“Oh...” he said, blinking.
She leaned in, her mouth brushing the shell of his ear.
“Just in case I wasn’t clear—I accept.”
Nancy laughed softly at seeing both his tender smile and his embarrassment as she opened the first buttons of his shirt and dropped a kiss on his neck.
Friedrich gasped—a sharp, innocent sound—and his hands fluttered helplessly at her waist, unsure whether to hold her still or push her away.
She smiled against his skin, murmured something low and reassuring.
When she kissed him properly, he clutched at her as if drowning.
The world tilted and blurred into light and heat.
The smell of coffee and toasted bread woke him.
Friedrich padded into the kitchen, gloriously, obliviously naked, hair adorably tousled, and protesting,
“Oh, Nancy… you don’t need to do this! I don't want a servant-wife! I—I can cook, Nancy, I don't expect—”
Nancy, still in his shirt and nothing else, set a plate on the table and gave him a lazy once-over.
“Well,” she said, grinning, “that’s a nice view first thing in the morning.”
He went pink from the tips of his ears downward.
She pressed a kiss to his cheek and added, “In a lifetime, we’ll take turns spoiling each other. Fair’s fair.”
Friedrich looked at her, stunned, as if she’d just handed him the key to heaven.
Then, very seriously, he asked, “Do we have jam?”
Nancy laughed so hard she nearly dropped the plate.
“You are a toff. You have marmalade, and a rather good one at that. Hertfordshire. I suppose courtesy of your sister, the Countess?”
“Yes, from their estate. I hope you like it, because I think you are going to see that quite often.”
Nancy gave him a look. “Friedrich, you’re irresistibly attractive, but if you want us to actually eat breakfast, I’m going to need you to put something on.”
He returned quickly, swaddled in a beautifully embroidered silk robe. Nancy raised an eyebrow.
“So… are your pyjamas Savile Row too? That robe is so gorgeous I could use it as a wedding dress.”
Friedrich smiled sheepishly. “It was a gift. From my father, after I finished my hospital rotation. Bought in Vienna. He has similar ones.”
Nancy bit back a quip about his parents, sensing—for once—that his heart was wide open and vulnerable.
Friedrich busied himself buttering bread, but then—as usual—launched into one of his unfiltered rambles.
“I could get you one, you know. Well, I’d have to ask Mama, and that would be... awkward. Especially now, with the swastika banners and... everything. Maybe Liesl can help me find one here in London. I should introduce you to her. And Louisa. And Henry. And little George, of course.”
Nancy laughed. “Oh, dear. You can be very attractive as an incredibly professional doctor, and as an antifascist hero... but honestly, I love it most when you babble like this.”
He grinned and tugged her onto his lap by her waist, careful not to spill the coffee. “And I love you.”
She gave him a quick peck. “I love you too, my dear aristo. But now—breakfast.”
They sat side by side, sharing buttered bread and laughing over marmalade drips.
“So you want to introduce me to your family here already?” she teased.
“Well… we are engaged,” Friedrich said, visibly gathering his courage. “And, um, I had planned—traditionally—to wait for the wedding night. But... since we... you know...” He trailed off, reddening again.
Nancy tapped his nose. “Dr von Trapp, surely you can say the word.”
Friedrich huffed. “You’re going to get along splendidly with my siblings. They mock me too, you know.”
“They make fun of you?” she gasped in mock horror.
“You have no idea. I’m fairly certain Liesl might go into labour if Louisa and Henry tease me too much. And Kurt is even worse.”
Nancy’s eyes widened. “The Countess is expecting?”
“Liesl is. Second child. George is thrilled about it.”
Nancy softened. “Siblings so close in age... that’s lovely.”
Friedrich smiled and buttered her second piece of bread for her. The gesture—so tender, so domestically intimate—sent a little pang through Nancy’s chest.
She leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth.
“Dr Very Proper, we really should work on your table conversation, or our wedding reception will be a disaster.”
He mock-glared at her, but his heart was shining from his eyes.
They ate a few more bites in a warm, easy silence.
Then Friedrich—his voice low and halting—said, “You know… as much as I always disliked acknowledging certain… aspects of my parents’ life… I did gather, from certain accidents at the villa…”
He cleared his throat.
“…things I wanted to forget but that, um, might be… useful to me now. Such as… the understanding that… one could make love to his beloved… on a table.”
Nancy choked on her coffee.
“You mean to say, Dr von Trapp, that you are suggesting we inaugurate your antique breakfast table properly?”
He looked appalled at the idea—and also utterly captivated.
“I… I meant... well… I just... if you… wouldn’t mind…?”
Nancy stood up, sauntered around the table, and slid into his lap once more.
“I think,” she said, brushing her mouth against his, “you’re about to learn that I mind a great deal when you don’t make such suggestions.”
He made a small, stunned sound against her mouth—and then, finally, stopped worrying and kissed her like a man possessed.
The plate of marmalade toast slipped to the floor unnoticed.
Friedrich had asked for an intimate family dinner because he wanted to discuss a few important things. They opted for the Haverstones’ townhouse to make it easier for Liesl.
And so, two evenings later, he sat in Mayfair with Liesl, Henry, and Louisa. The nanny briefly brought George for a greeting and a kiss before bedtime, and Friedrich cuddled his nephew, wondering whether he would soon have his own son or daughter to hold like that.
They started eating, the trio watching Friedrich curiously, not to mention with a little bit of worry.
“I hope no bad news from Salzburg, Friedrich,” Liesl asked.
“Darling, I am rather sure either someone from the family, or the British Embassy would have contacted us already, if that were the case” Henry tried to calm her.
“No, absolutely no bad news from Salzburg. Well, apart from the fact that they are still not here.”
Louisa agreed. “I will sleep more soundly when they are here. Who cares about the end of the school year? What are they going to learn, new ways of saying Heil Hitler?”
“Lou, I think the main issues are selling the Danube company and as much land as possible, then transfer the money to the bank here in London. I know they want to sell their Fiume shares, too, but uncle Robert and uncle Frank are not happy about that. And it’s not a priority anyway. Then they are going to rent out the villa and the garden to the Borromäum. I think Papa hopes to see Austria free again, or to have us see a free Austria again.”
Liesl looked at Friedrich. “Is that what you want to discuss?”
Friedrich sipped a little bit of wine. “Oh, no, no. Quite another matter.”
The trio looked at him expectantly. “And… may we hear what it is?”
Friedrich sighed. It was now or never. “Well… I am engaged. And I would like to introduce my fiancée to you in the next days.”
There was a moment of absolute silence, where the trio watched Friedrich intently to see if it was a Kurt-like joke or not.
Then Friedrich asked, “Is that a problem? I know it’s a little… sudden…”
The trio immediately started pulling faces, fighting to stay solemn. Liesl twisted her napkin between her fingers; Louisa tapped her knife against her plate with suspiciously rhythmic clinks; Henry polished his wineglass with a handkerchief he’d produced from nowhere. Their mouths twitched, their gazes darted between one another in silent conspiracy—and lost the battle completely.
Finally, Louisa cracked first, breaking into helpless giggles. “You mean to tell me,” she gasped between cackles, “that all that brooding and sighing last time was because you were in love?”
Lord and Lady Aldbury gave in to very unlordly behaviour too and started cackling.
“Forgive me, Friedrich, but… we were ready to invade Austria to free your family from the Gestapo— again—... and all this time you were just hopelessly in love? And you are already engaged?”
Friedrich was now the one fidgeting. “Sometimes you just… know.”
Henry asked, “So, who is the lucky lady?”
“Miss Nancy Cleese. A remarkably intelligent nurse. Originally of Woking, Surrey.”
Henry’s face showed his disappointment. “Oh, no, NO, Friedrich. The doctor and the nurse? How… cliché, how horrible. Elisabeth, is this genetic? Should I worry for George and for our new baby?”
“Oh, believe me, there is nothing cliché in how we got together,” answered Friedrich.
Liesl kissed him on his cheek, and Louisa stood up and did the same. “As long as you are sure, and happy, we are happy for you.”
Henry wasn’t satisfied. “But we want to know more!”
Friedrich launched himself in a rather redacted version of his love story. Henry appreciated the subversion of a few clichés, but glossed, “The heroic doctor shielding the nurse is still rather… cliché. But the lady sounds promising. We are looking forward to meeting her.”
Liesl was rather practical-minded. “If your hospital schedule is not too demanding, I would do it soon. I am not sure how long this little one wants to stay in there,” she said patting her belly.
Friedrich smiled—dazed, grateful, hopelessly in love—and quietly thanked God that Nancy would soon meet his family.
He just hoped Liesl could keep the baby inside until dessert.
They entered the townhouse, with Nancy looking slightly more out of place than a nurse in a drawing room ought to. She blushed as Friedrich gently guided her in, her eyes darting nervously around.
“Remember, she’s Liesl, or Elisabeth, and he’s Henry. No titles unless you feel like calling Louisa Dr von Trapp… but I imagine you wouldn’t.”
Nancy chuckled. “No, no, definitely a title I reserve for you, Friedrich,” she said with a wink.
Liesl, Louisa, and Henry looked at the woman who had, apparently, taken Friedrich’s heart prisoner.
Nancy stood a little under 170 cm, a quiet contrast to Friedrich’s imposing stature. Her brown hair, loosely pinned back, framed a freckled face that softened the sharpness of her striking green eyes. While she wasn’t a typical aristocratic beauty—no porcelain skin or delicate features—her charm was undeniable. She had the sort of allure that made you feel both welcome and at ease, her smile always ready to warm a room.
She was not a fashion plate, certainly, but she wore her loveliness in the way she carried herself—soft, unpretentious, with an ease that put others at ease too.
The trio immediately liked Nancy, sensing the warmth she radiated and the genuine kindness behind her slight awkwardness. Still, the air in the room shifted as they exchanged glances, noticing the silent tension between her and Friedrich—a sort of quiet understanding that made them all uneasy in the way that unspoken things often did.
And then there was Nancy’s little smirk, a cat-like expression that was just too knowing for anyone's comfort. She wasn’t shy or uncomfortable, far from it, and for all of their kind feelings, Liesl, Henry, and Louisa couldn’t help but think: Oh, she’s already claimed him. She’s eaten the bird.
The dinner began as it often did—with polite conversation about the weather, the latest happenings in London, and the usual family updates. Liesl asked Nancy a few questions about her nursing work, and Nancy answered with gentle enthusiasm, seeming genuinely interested in the Haverstones' lives. For all the awkwardness of the situation, Nancy fit in remarkably well.
The nanny brought little George, as usual, for a goodnight kiss. “Oh, what a beautiful boy,” said Nancy. “He looks just like his father, if you don’t mind me saying it!” George kissed his parents, aunt, and uncle, then smiled a little timidly at the newcomer.
Friedrich, though, was increasingly aware of the trio’s sharp glances and the barely concealed smirks they exchanged. He had barely gotten through a bite of his fish when Louisa leaned forward, eyes twinkling.
“Well,” she said, her voice a mix of curiosity and sarcasm. “This was all very sudden, isn’t it, Friedrich? One moment you were a free man, and the next thing we know, you’re engaged?”
Henry choked on his wine, then cleared his throat. “I am sure something rather extraordinary must have happened. You know, that kind of thing one swears would never happen.”
Friedrich almost choked on his bite, while Nancy, entirely unaware of the underlying meaning in Henry’s comment, simply nodded in agreement with her usual polite demeanour. She hadn’t yet realized that all of Friedrich's siblings were well aware of his previous intentions to follow the Church’s teachings regarding celibacy before marriage.
Liesl was torn between giving in to the sport of teasing and feeling a bit sorry for her dear brother. “Well, what would life be without those extraordinary things?” she said with a half-smile. “Our family thrives on them.”
She then absentmindedly touched her belly for a brief moment. “You know, our sister Anna, for example... Well, Mama went into labour during my debut. She tried to hide it from everyone for hours, not wanting to ruin my ball. She ended up locked away with three elderly noblewomen of the Viennese court. Quite an incredible experience, really, until the doctor arrived. Anna was born the next morning, and I was the first to meet her. Ten years ago.”
“Oh, Friedrich told me the story. I absolutely loved it!” Nancy was sincere in her admiration for the romantic and amusing story.
Liesl smiled warmly at Nancy’s response, then sighed and playfully gestured to her belly. “Well, I’m glad you do. Because it seems it’s become a family tradition... My waters just broke!”
Henry's face drained of colour; his hands gripped the table, his eyes wide in horror. “I beg your pardon?”
“Henry, darling, it shouldn’t exactly come as a surprise!”
“But we are not at Haverstone Hall!”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like the baby particularly cares about that detail.”
Louisa, ever the scientist, leaned back with supreme calm. “Well, you have witnesses enough, one of them not even related to you yet, and we are two doctors and a nurse. I'd say it's perfect: Crown appeased; another evening of glory for medicine, too.”
Friedrich most definitely did not agree. “No, no, no, no, no! I am absolutely not helping my sister give birth!”
Liesl and Louisa turned to him with identical expressions of wounded pride. “You assisted with Thomas’s birth three years ago!” Liesl protested.
Friedrich looked even more insulted. “I assisted the doctors! I checked vitals! Procedures! I most certainly did not look between Mama’s legs—and I am absolutely not looking between Liesl’s legs either!”
At that, Nancy burst out laughing—bright, genuine, irresistible laughter that made even Henry, who looked on the verge of nervous collapse, snort into his wineglass.
“Oh, I love your brother!” Nancy said between giggles. “Especially when he forgets there's such a thing as a filter!”
Henry wiped his eyes, still shaking. “Oh, Nancy, welcome to the family. You’ll do just great with us.”
Louisa, ever practical, was already signalling for a footman and a maid.
“Right. Friedrich, you don't have to look between anyone’s legs unless it’s your will. You’ll take care of Liesl’s general condition. Now—what’s the room that can be cleaned quickest and kept sterile? And who’s your London doctor?”
“The butler can call the doctor. As for the rooms, I know just the right one!” Liesl said briskly, managing her contractions with impressive poise. She glanced toward the household staff. “And someone please remind me—we must give the staff a bonus. They’re about to work overtime.”
Nancy, almost as calm as Louisa, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and grinned. “I forgot how wonderfully progressive you all are. Friedrich, I suggest you take care of Henry instead—he seems closer to fainting than Liesl.”
Liesl and Louisa exchanged a look—and in that moment, they both felt a tremendous wave of affection for this level-headed, witty young woman.
“I imagine you’ve assisted with deliveries before?” Liesl asked, trying to breathe through another tightening wave.
“I most certainly have,” Nancy replied cheerfully. “Don’t worry.”
“Well, Friedrich, if you don’t marry her, I will,” Louisa declared, only half joking.
Nancy laughed. “Is this how you do family dinners? I'm almost afraid to ask what the wedding will look like. Are we getting married on one of your submarines, captained by your father?”
“Well, as much as he would love to, I fear that’s not possible at the moment, considering the state of current foreign affairs,” remarked Henry.
Friedrich joined in, more relaxed now that midwifery was apparently off his duties. “We might settle for one of the Thames barges from the English company. Or a yacht.”
Liesl grinned, ignoring the growing tension in her belly.
“A captain can still marry you, can’t he? Oh, Papa would just love that! And of course, you’ll need separate blessings. Two ceremonies, twice the chaos.”
She turned to Henry.
“We’d better start bribing someone to find an Anglican vicar and a Catholic priest willing to bless a mixed marriage. And… best to have them ready—in case the bride decides to give birth halfway through the vows.”
Henry gave a strangled laugh. “At this point, it would not surprise me in the least.”
Hours later, with the baby safely delivered and everyone slightly exhausted but elated, Henry and Liesl sat side-by-side, their hands entwined, gazing at the tiny bundle nestled between them.
“She’s perfect,” Henry whispered, voice thick with emotion.
“She is,” Liesl agreed, stroking the baby’s dark hair. “And we’ve agreed on her name, haven’t we?”
Henry smiled, that rare, utterly unguarded smile he reserved only for his family. “Mary Agatha. After your two mothers, who both made you what you are.”
Louisa and Nancy hovered nearby, beaming. Friedrich, who had managed the entire ordeal without fainting—though he looked perilously close at one point—stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, clearing his throat.
Louisa, never one for excessive sentimentality, brandished the newly written telegram with pride.
“I took the liberty of composing the family announcement,” she said. “No edits permitted.”
She read aloud:
MARY AGATHA HAVERSTONE BORN STOP PARENTS OVERJOYED STOP AUNT UNCLE AND NEW AUNT HAPPY STOP FRIEDRICH IS GETTING MARRIED STOP WE NEED YOU IN ENGLAND AS SOON AS POSSIBLE STOP LOVE LIESL HENRY LOUISA FRIEDRICH NANCY
Nancy started laughing so hard she had to sit down.
“You’ve put Friedrich’s engagement in the birth announcement?” she managed, wiping her eyes.
“Well, there’s no time to waste these days,” Louisa said briskly. “And if we don’t order them onto a ship now, they might be stuck if Hitler closes the border, or if Britain panics.”
There was a heavy silence at that, a reminder of the darker world beyond these walls.
But then the baby whimpered, and Liesl gathered her close, and for a moment, the outside world disappeared.
Life—beautiful, messy, hopeful—went on.
It was the 27 June 1938.
Villa Trapp, Aigen bei Salzburg
The grand but now half-empty villa echoed with footsteps and quiet voices. Boxes were stacked in every corner, paintings and books hurriedly packed away, and the heavy air outside brought more than just the summer heat—it carried fear.
Georg and Maria were overseeing the packing: 'Things to take with us' and 'Things we leave here in the attic.' A hard task to accomplish, when they had no idea what the future would bring—or whether they would ever be back.
Kurt and Brigitta were keeping an eye on Thomas and double-checking the lists their parents had prepared.
Franz brought a telegram, and they all froze.
Telegrams never brought good news these days.
The only hope they had was that it could be about their new grandchild.
Maria took it from him, glancing anxiously at Georg before tearing it open.
They both read it together, their expressions slowly shifting from dread to disbelief.
MARY AGATHA HAVERSTONE BORN STOP PARENTS OVERJOYED STOP AUNT UNCLE AND NEW AUNT HAPPY STOP FRIEDRICH IS GETTING MARRIED STOP WE NEED YOU IN ENGLAND AS SOON AS POSSIBLE STOP LOVE LIESL HENRY LOUISA FRIEDRICH NANCY
There was a long, stunned silence.
At last, Georg let out a soft, incredulous huff—almost a laugh, though it was tinged with sorrow.
“Well,” he said, “it seems that even as the world falls apart, at least one branch of the family remains determined to expand. Possibly two.”
Maria pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh—or perhaps a sob. “Friedrich... getting married? In England?”
Georg shook his head slowly, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “If they are planning a wedding amidst this madness,” he said, “I suppose we must do the impossible too.”
They walked over to Kurt and Brigitta.
“Read this. You have to read it yourself.”
It was endearing to see the two of them smile again, after everything they had been through.
“Oh... our first niece... the name... AND FRIEDRICH GETTING MARRIED?” Kurt shouted, and Brigitta jumped as if she were Karoline or Thomas.
Thomas promptly imitated her, earning a rare chuckle.
Brigitta said, “Must have been love at first sight—or almost.”
Maria bit her lip, a shadow crossing her face. “Let's just hope it isn’t just a reaction to what he has been through.”
Unexpectedly, Kurt answered, firm and clear:
“We have to believe it's love. It's Friedrich we're talking about. If we stop believing in people like him, there’s no hope.”
Georg squeezed Maria’s hand, then Kurt’s shoulder. “True,” he said. “We have to keep believing that love can still conquer people—not hate.”
Kurt grinned mischievously. “Oh, and of course we’re going to mock him forever,” he added, glancing at Brigitta, who grinned back.
Notes:
As I said, "Doctor Doctor" by UFO refers to a specific "problem" which is not Friedrich's, as you might have understood. However, I found the general tale of a rather embarrassed young man who is also madly in love and lust fitting.
I always found film-canon Friedrich sweet and goofy, so I came up with this story. If you liked the entire story so far, you will surely love Friedrich's own storyline!
Chapter 27: A new life
Summary:
This chapter chronicles the von Trapp family's final, heartbreaking goodbyes in Austria, as they reluctantly leave their home and loved ones behind. The tone shifts dramatically upon their arrival in London, where they are reunited with Liesl, Henry, Louisa, and a newly-engaged Friedrich. As the family begins to plan their new lives in England, the focus moves to a series of joyful reunions, wedding preparations for Friedrich and Nancy, and the humorous chaos of Louisa's career at the London Hospital. It's a chapter that balances the profound pain of leaving with the hopeful, comedic promise of a new beginning.
Notes:
Content Warning: This chapter contains a brief but a dark glimpse into the realities of National Socialism and its impact on the family's friends and relatives.
Always check whether you have read the previous chapter, since these days I am publishing more often (August and all: more time to write and read).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Villa Trapp, Salzburg, July 1938
The clock had stopped ticking. Not because time stood still, but because time had run out. Austria was no longer theirs—and now, at last, they had to leave. They had done everything: sold what they could, packed what they needed, said what had to be said. All that remained was goodbye.
“Should we wear our Trachten one last time, for our goodbyes in Vienna, Papa?” It was Martha who asked.
It was painful — parting from the clothes of their traditional festivals, their summers, their songs. But what use would they be in London? They already had to leave so much behind — even things they would have to buy again.
Maria and Georg exchanged a glance — silent, strained. Georg nodded. “It’s a beautiful idea, Martha.”
And how it hurt.
Their round of farewells followed Friedrich’s steps.
First: Constanze, her little boy, and the man who had become her husband. The distance between them was no longer quiet. It was final. Even if they ever came back to Austria, there would be no friendship to rekindle. Not for Kurt and Brigitta—not after what they had endured, and what Constanze’s husband now stood for.
Still, the goodbye was honest. For what had been. For childhood. For blood.
For Georg, it was something else: Werner’s daughter. Werner’s grandchildren. A connection so thin now it felt like breath on glass. If Austria was ever free again, Georg would be in his sixties, maybe older. Would he even live to see it?
The Auerspergs were simpler farewells. The minimum of warmth that their connection still held, after all.
The Trapps replied in kind.
But Constance, Joan, and Gromi were another matter. Georg felt it keenly.
“I am taking away the last of Agathe,” he said. “I know that. And I’m sorry.”
There were tears on every face.
Gromi didn’t answer immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was as dry as it had always been.
“From the moment I saw the way you looked at Agathe, and the way she looked at you, I knew you would be trouble, Georg von Trapp.” A pause. “But you’ve always done what you thought was right. Hence go. Protect your family.”
She turned to the others. “I will miss the children. Even the four little ones. All such dear children.”
Kurt and Brigitta stepped forward.
“It’s not just Papa, Gromi,” Brigitta said. “We want to leave. We all do.”
Gromi nodded once. “Remember I love you all. Even you, Maria.” She turned to her. “Take care of them. All of them. Even the grown ones.”
Aunt Joan and Constance said the same thing they always had — with more weight than ever.
“I love you all. Take care. And tell Frankie to visit more often. With the children.”
They were admitted to Elsa and Max’s townhouse by a tired-looking and faintly embarrassed butler.
“We were told to admit you when you came,” he said. “But you may have to wait a while. The mistress and master hosted a rather important soirée… it went on until early this morning.”
They were shown to a smaller sitting room. The staff could be heard hurrying about — cleaning, covering, pretending.
Georg and Maria were focused on their own thoughts: the move, the farewells, the ache of leaving Austria. They didn’t dwell on it.
Martha and Gretl quietly imagined how splendid the soirée must have been to last so long.
Kurt and Brigitta, however — hardened by Vienna, university life, and political awakenings — were less naïve. If Max and Elsa had always chased shine and power… it stood to reason that, with the Reich’s help, they had finally caught both.
“What’s that?” Martha moved toward the divan. A dishevelled SS tunic hung limply across the back.
Kurt and Brigitta froze. Little Thomas and Karoline flinched. The others just looked confused.
Maria and Georg exchanged a glance, then subtly gestured for the tunic to be covered.
Kurt and Brigitta bent as if to tie a shoelace—and examined beneath the divan. Shards of broken glass. Probably a champagne flute.
They began pacing the room. In truth, they were investigating. Lipstick smeared across the divan. From the larger salon, sounds: laughter, a woman’s voice, two male ones. Coarse snickering. A sharp snorting noise.
Kurt leaned toward Brigitta and whispered, “Nothing says honour, Fatherland, blood and soil quite like orgies with cocaine and uniforms.”
Brigitta’s voice was quiet, bitter. “And we knew about the last two already.”
When Elsa and Max finally appeared—careful to warn their “guests” not to make an entrance—they were smiling, made-up, fragrant. Hungover but polished.
“It’s a good thing we’re in a good mood,” Elsa trilled. “It would be too sad to say farewell otherwise.”
“Yesterday was a very important cultural soirée,” Max added, pouring strong coffee into delicate china. “We made some… significant friends.” He offered Georg a cup. “I know you won’t approve.”
“We’re losing others, of course,” Elsa added, more genuinely. “That is sad.”
“Do you know we will miss you?” Max said, eyes suddenly damp. “Thirty-seven years since Fiume, Georg. And I remember the birth of every single one of your children.”
Georg held his cup without drinking. “People make choices. We made ours. You made yours.”
Maria softened the blow. “And you were good friends, once. It’s better to say goodbye now, before it all sours.”
There were still real hugs. Words meant. Affection that hadn't quite curdled. But some things could no longer be unsaid—or unseen.
Kurt waited until the very end. Then he stepped close to Elsa and whispered:
“Time to make space for the Reich’s elite. High on ideology — and whatever else they’ve stolen from Jewish pharmacies.” He held up the broken champagne flute he’d pocketed earlier. “We’re even now, I’d say. Café Bazar and Leopoldskron. Oh—and no need to let your ‘guests’ say goodbye.”
And he turned on his heel.
Brigitta followed. “Forgive our rudeness. It’s just that the last time we hosted the SS, they didn’t let us offer coffee. And the blows they ‘offered’ us weren’t nearly as exciting as the ones they offered you, I imagine.”
She didn’t wait for a response.
Agathe’s grave in Klosterneuburg was more than a stop—it was a final prayer, a silent ritual, a farewell to the past that could no longer return. The marble stone marked not only the young woman lost in February 1922, but a world she would no longer recognize—a world that had changed beyond measure.
Friedrich’s earlier words still echoed there.
This time, it was Georg who knelt down, touched the base of the grave, and spoke.
“We don’t know if we’ll ever be back. Not even one of us. I know the Whiteheads will keep bringing you flowers, but this might be our last time. We have no idea what waits beyond this summer. Please, keep watching over us. I’m sure you already have—especially over Kurt and Brigitta. We’ve heard things that might have been their fate. But they weren’t.”
Maria stepped forward and bowed her head. “I’ve been praying to you since I was a postulant. Since I first came to care for your children. You’re coming with us, you know. In our prayers, in our hearts. We haven’t forgotten you—and we ask you now: please, keep watching over them. Over the children, at least.”
One by one, they lined up—even the younger ones. Fingertips kissed, then pressed gently to the marble.
No one said the word “farewell” aloud. But every movement spoke it.
Back to the Villa Trapp for the last time
The grand hall hadn’t changed much since that April day twelve years ago—though stripped now of many things that had once made it the beating heart of a family.
But that flicker of connection, that electric, impossible moment between them back then, had grown into something enduring—fierce, tested, and unwavering.
And now it was love, not duty, that held them before the flag. Love that had begun that day in 1926. And for Georg, the echo of 1918 hung there too, sharp as sea air and memory.
Tears flowed freely—neither tried to stop them. Not even Georg.
They knew their children were standing at the edge of the room: Kurt, Brigitta, Martha, Gretl, Anna, Florian, Karoline, and little Thomas. Silent, watching.
Maria whispered, voice shaking, “This time, will you show me the proper salute from the beginning, darling?”
He smiled through tears. “Of course, darling.” He took her hand, kissed it, and gently turned it palm-down—Navy-style. Then he saluted in the same way. They stood like that at attention, side by side, and Georg spoke softly, yet clearly.
“I thought I would never lower you again. This time… this time might be the last. But even now, you are coming with me. With us. All the memories. All the lessons learned. All the meaning.”
Maria murmured, “Your words are worth more than any twenty-one gun salute.”
Georg’s voice dropped. “I don’t think I ever want to hear another gun salute again.”
Together, they ascended the stairs. Hand in hand.
They each took a corner of the flag.
“Together?”
“Together. Always.”
And they lowered the flag—carefully, reverently.
But they were no longer alone. The children had come closer, without being called.
“You’ll need help if you want to fold it properly,” said Kurt, his voice steady.
And so, one by one, they joined.
Together, they folded the old Imperial and Royal flag.
Together, they placed it on top of the belongings packed in the large wooden crate.
Together, they closed it shut.
Southampton, July 1938
He had checked the manifest. He had seen the names. And he had poured himself one last cup of weak tea to face the day.
The announced invasion.
Which was exactly what the poor border officer said when he noticed a dashing man carrying a sweet boy, a beautiful woman, and seven people—all blessed in looks—following them. All elegant, all first class.
The officer looked up from his desk with the expression of a man who had seen the future and chosen not to participate.
“Ah. And here I was certain Lord Aldbury had reserved the Victoria and Albert at least for this exodus— but no. My disappointment, it seems, continues to unfold like a particularly tedious tea party. With weak biscuits.” He looked at them as if to inspect them.
“Sir, do you need our papers?” asked Georg.
“Officially, yes. In practice, I’ve been briefed so thoroughly I feel I could impersonate your eldest daughter at a formal dinner. Ah—and here comes the mastermind himself. Lord Aldbury, in all his loyal affection.”
Henry strode forward like the storm before the paperwork.
“Good morning, officer! I trust this will be quick—we’re rather dramatically blocking His Majesty’s port.” He turned to his family. “We commandeered Friedrich’s and Louisa’s cars. Our two doctors and Nancy are on hospital duty, you know.”
“Hello Henry! Who’s ‘we,’ then?” asked Kurt.
“My divine Elisabeth, my valet Davies, and myself. Friedrich’s face was a study when I told him she’d be driving. He mumbled something about a test she took in 1928 and not so much practice after that. Which, of course, is why I gave her the Wraith.”
The older siblings as well as Georg and Maria burst into laughter. Brigitta also added, “Friedrich has a Rolls-Royce! Wow!”
“Do you think that’s how he got himself engaged?” said Gretl in jest.
The officer tried to bring back order. “As much as I find myself growlingly fascinated by your family’s story, I really must avoid congestion to both port and queues.” He turned to Henry. “Lord Aldbury,” he said, nodding with all the warmth of a chilled tea cosy. “We’ve received your marmalade. And your marginalia. The handwriting, at least, was decisive.”
Then, in a voice that might have once delivered Hamlet: “Single file, full smiles. Tragic tales optional, but useful for queue management. Welcome to England, sir, madam, assorted heirs and heiresses. And to you two young gentlemen: remember, Southampton F.C. needs loyal fans. Especially now.”
After the warmth of Henry’s welcome, Liesl’s arms around her family truly undid the knots she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying for months. In that hug, fear loosened its grip and tension melted away, as if they had both been holding their breath since March.
Maria told her immediately, “For a woman who recently gave birth, you look incredible. And you drove all the way down to Southampton, too!”
Liesl waved a hand lightly. “Oh, Mama, I’ve been lucky. I can even manage a decent social life until the end of pregnancy. Of course,” she added, her eyes dancing, “Henry is also very thoughtful.”
“Oh, your father has always been thoughtful too,” Maria replied, matching the tone.
“Hear that, Georg?” Henry’s voice emerged from behind a wall of backpacks. “Praise! Our reward for packing the belongings of ten people into three cars. I feel canonisation coming.”
Georg, stacking another suitcase with military precision, only shook his head in amusement.
Kurt wanted to help, but Georg urged him to be cautious, considering what had happened to his ribs recently. Liesl, meanwhile, had picked up little Thomas and gone to check on her brother and Brigitta. As she gently brushed Brigitta’s arm, her fingers paused.
There they were: the cigarette scars Friedrich had described. Pale, cruel dots marring soft skin.
Her eyes brimmed, and she brushed the marks gently with her thumb. “You’re well enough, I hope?”
Brigitta nodded. “We are, thank you. And we’ll be even better now. Let’s go look at that brilliant Wraith! Liesl, can we drive it a while? Maybe where it’s not too trafficked?”
Liesl grinned. “That was the plan all along. Friedrich can’t just get engaged in a matter of weeks—no warning, no signs—and not pay for it.”
Kurt was intrigued. “And the lucky lady? What’s she like?”
Liesl raised an eyebrow. “The fact that Henry and Louisa adored her on sight should tell you all you need to know.”
“Promising. Is she a stunner?”
“Kurt! That’s your brother’s fiancée!”
“So, she is a stunner,” he said, smirking.
Liesl rolled her eyes but relented. “Yes, she’s beautiful. Not the dramatic kind—more of a sweet, lovely kind. Green eyes, thick brown hair, a smile that could disarm you. But you’ll see. Much better than hearing it from me.”
Gretl snickered. “That sounds like a very interesting story.”
Brigitta simply tilted her head.
Martha, Anna, Florian, and Karoline nodded with wide eyes.
On the way to London, Liesl let Kurt, Brigitta, and Martha take turns behind the wheel of the Wraith.
Their laughter filled the countryside between Basingstoke and Camberley, the car gliding over gentle hills and long curves like a silver ghost. For a stretch, they even held a quiet race, careful not to rattle Georg and Maria’s sensibilities—or attract too much attention.
As they reached the outskirts of London, traffic thickened. The city reasserted its rhythm. The fun was over, but the joy remained.
The Haverstones’ townhouse had been perfectly reorganised. Staff were briefed. Bedrooms arranged.
And at the door waited the nanny with George and baby Mary Agatha—another dark-haired beauty who promptly stole all attention from her brother.
Maria’s eyes welled up instantly. Seeing her granddaughter in person, after all the fear and waiting, was something else entirely.
Georg held her first, beaming.
“I thought those stories about fathers and their first girls were exaggerated,” Henry teased.
Georg looked down at Mary Agatha and smiled. “Dear boy, be prepared, in case you have other girls. Until the day you hold your first granddaughter, which will be another incredible experience. Hello, little one!”
He turned to Liesl. “The name… it was incredibly thoughtful.”
“I know, Papa,” she said softly, and kissed him.
He kissed the baby, then passed her to Maria, who kissed her too—tears now flowing freely.
Luckily, George was happy to see his uncle Thomas, and so the two retired in a corner to speak in their own mix of German, English, and words and sounds only they understood.
Louisa arrived next—fresh from hospital duty and ran home to finally, finally hug her family again. Even she, the level-headed one of the family, could finally let go of the pain and worry that had gripped her for months.
She showered everyone in kisses, and then inspected Kurt and Brigitta. She found the cigarette scars, too, and she simply said, “They are going to pay for that. Some day.” She looked at them to check whether anything looked different, worried that there might be signs in the soul, rather than on the body.
And then came the moment they’d been all waiting for. Even little Thomas, half asleep on his mother’s lap, had stayed up.
Friedrich entered, holding hands with a smiling Nancy, both giddy as schoolgirls, and said “Naja, servus und willkommen!”, to greet and welcome the family. Nancy smiled: she had heard the siblings only say a few things in German to George, but she had never really heard Friedrich speak his language. Now was the moment. He sounded different. Older. Prouder. And it was like getting to know another piece of him.
While his parents as well as the four younger ones did say an affectionate “Oh, Friedrich”, the others were very busy observing them in order to make their first words to the couple memorable. Therefore, a strange silence ensued, with Liesl, Henry, and Louisa trying not to snicker.
Nancy, always composed, was suddenly nervous. Four Trapp siblings were studying her like scientists examining a new species. All smiling. None speaking.
Kurt broke the silence, of course.
He stood, walked slowly toward them, wagged a finger at Friedrich, and proclaimed with mock gravity:
“Vivien Leigh. A little plumper, younger, and with freckles. Oh, Friedrich... you got yourself a beauty.”
He punched his brother lightly, then turned to Nancy, offering his hand—and promptly kissed hers.
“Welcome to the family, Nancy. I’m Kurt.”
Laughter broke like a dam. Even Georg chuckled, shaking his head in surrender.
Nancy giggled. “So, Kurt—did you rehearse all that just to embarrass him?”
“I improvised, of course. But had I been warned, I’m sure we—all ten of us— could’ve produced something memorable. Anyway, I’m glad I remembered my English.”
Then Friedrich and Kurt hugged. “And I thought letting you race the Wraith would satisfy you.”
“How do you know…”
“Because I am your brother, and I know every single one of you. Especially Liesl and Henry. I knew what to expect. Speaking of which… sorry for my manners. Everyone, this is Nancy Cleese, my future wife. She’s a nurse at Barts: intelligent, kind, and far too good for me. And, now that you are here, we can finally marry!”
One by one, the siblings stood up and hugged Nancy: “My condolences, Nancy, really,” said Gretl with a grin, whereas the others were quite nice. Anna was predictably starstruck, as Friedrich had foreseen: “You are so beautiful… the perfect princess for Friedrich!” Karoline nodded vigorously beside her.
Maria and Georg approached her, a little bit thrilled and with Thomas rather groggy. “Maria, so nice to meet you, Nancy,” and “Georg. I welcome you to the family wholeheartedly.” Thomas was invited by Maria to lean in for a kiss, which he gladly received, only to go back to his half-sleep after a kiss by Friedrich.
Nancy smiled, aware of how long the day had been. “You must all be tired. Let’s save the rest for another day. But we’d love to invite you all for dinner soon—at… Friedrich’s place. It’s a charming neighbourhood. Might give you ideas, if you’re looking.”
Only the older siblings caught the half-second pause before “Friedrich’s place.”
Only they exchanged knowing glances.
Louisa and Friedrich had organised an informal get-together between Friedrich, his wife-to-be Nancy, and some of her favourite (or curious) colleagues who already knew Friedrich. The occasion was not only to introduce Nancy to the others; it was also a request by Louisa’s colleagues, who had read an article by “a certain Simon Hartley”, namely good old Simon from the ‘gang’ who had managed to have his article about the arrival of the “brave Austrian refugees, the Trapp family, kin to Lord Aldbury by marriage” published. The article featured a picture of the entire family and Lord Aldbury himself on both the Manchester Guardian (seeing as the gang and the family leaned Liberal or progressive, if not Labour) and the Times (for coverage. And also to keep the promise made to the patient border officer to have him featured on the papers).
They met halfway between Barts and the London Hospital, in a tea room in Cheapside.
Louisa had brought with her Dr John Hardy—a Senior registrar, Dr Thomas Davies—a Registrar, Dr James Bennett—a research collaborator who had previously worked with her, and a bright last-year medical student, Richard Williams, one of the few male students who hadn’t yet earned her contempt.
The introduction to Nancy was polite and friendly, and there were a few tasteful jokes about a romance between a nurse and a doctor, but somehow more related to the “Trapp invasion.”
“Do we have such beautiful nurses at our hospital, John?” asked Dr Davies.
“I am sure we do, but they usually fall for chaps like our Dr Friedrich von Trapp here, not for boring old us. Right, Bennett?”
Richard had obviously still something to learn. “Excuse me, Dr Davies, Dr Hardy. Aren’t you married anyway?»
The two doctors exchanged stares. “Yes, and you are now recruited for several night shifts. To these no doubt formative night shifts, we will let Dr Louisa von Trapp add a few punishment essays if our wives ever get to hear that we joke about women,” they proclaimed with a twinkle in their eyes.
“Speaking of which,” said Dr Bennet. “Seduction of our best women notwithstanding, we are all very happy to know that your family is finally safe. Also, on the brighter side of things, they brought seven sisters, and Lady Aldbury already married an Englishman.” He winked at the group. “Williams, if you keep being a good student, maybe Dr von Trapp might introduce you to one of her sisters.”
Louisa arched her eyebrows. “Dr Bennett, I am not sure if you mean it as a disciplinary method against Williams or against me.”
“Well, set him up with one, let’s find out,” suggested Dr Bennett, grinning at her. She shook her head, but couldn’t hide her amusement.
The conversation continued, with Friedrich retelling the story of the tricks played on the governess up until the one who would become their mother. “Louisa was often one of the masterminds, and she also had no trouble picking up, well, fauna and flora to scare them away. We initially thought she would go into biology. But then she read ‘Heidi’, which prompted her to read some of our father’s books on the war, which depicted the advancements of medicine. And that’s how we ended up having two doctors in the family!”
Dr Davies was curious. “Heidi?”
Louisa explained. “Yes. The approach to disability, in the case of Klara. And Heidi’s disease of the soul when she becomes homesick.”
Dr Bennett added, “It must have felt familiar. Isn’t it set near Salzburg?”
Friedrich tried not to say anything, as a good Dr Very Proper. Louisa obviously did no such thing, and snickered.
“Heidi’s Swiss, Dr Bennett. Somewhere above Maienfeld, Canton of Graubünden. Schanfigg Valley. Altitude roughly 1,200 metres. Not a Mozart concerto in sight.”
“I always thought Heidi was set in Austria. Or vaguely—your neck of the woods, at least. And… you truly memorised the altitude?”
Louisa tilted her head, almost pitying him. “That’s like saying Jane Eyre is from Devon because she broods. And… how do you think we Trapps become polyglots? Memory, Dr Bennett. Memory and curiosity.”
“I suppose this also explains why you never let misbehaviour in the laboratory unpunished. You probably do not forget a single sin of the students. Anyway, Switzerland, Austria… all Alps, quaint costumes, and German language.
She cleared her throat and spoke mittelbairisch, the soft, sing-songy dialect of the Salzburg countryside: “Du host an Huat auf, aber koa Ahnung. That means You’re wearing a hat but have no idea. From the bairisch family of dialects.”
Dr Bennet was impressed: “And what’s that, a folk song?”
Louisa smirked, pinched her nose, and answered in pitch-perfect Schwyzerdütsch, suddenly nasal and clipped, with rough ‘r’s: “Das isch Schwiizerdütsch. Aber i bi ned din Lehreri. It means This is Swiss German dialect. But I’m not your teacher. Anyway, still Southern German world, but alemannisch, not bairisch. And sounds rather different. Well, unless you go to Vorarlberg, alemannisch Austria. But I would not advise it now. Not a friendly reception at the time, unless you travel with the Duke of Windsor.”
Dr Bennett blinked, and so did the others. “You are either the most brilliant woman I’ve ever met, or a threat to national security.”
Louisa smiled sweetly and sarcastically at the same time, one of her best skills. “You say that like it’s a choice. Just to be clear, I mean German national security, not British.”
Dr Hardy glossed. “That is why we got her. As Nancy says, Barts can keep Dr Very Proper. No offence, to you. I am sure you are a great doctor. But our research department will thrive on people like your sister.”
Louisa simply raised her teacup like a victorious general saluting the battlefield. Friedrich only shook his head, equal parts fond and mock-horrified.
Later, as they stepped outside, Nancy leaned in to Friedrich and whispered, “You do know your sister is completely oblivious to the fact that half those men want to eat her for dinner, don’t you? Is that a family trait, darling—being that oblivious?”
Friedrich chuckled. “You clearly need to spend more time with Kurt, Brigitta, and Gretl. Anna too, though we’ll need a few more years to see what sort of force she becomes.” He kissed her. “Anyway, I suspect they’d want you for dinner, too. Which is why I sincerely hope you’re not planning to sleep at your place tonight.”
“Jealous, Dr Very Proper?”
“I am my father’s son even in that regard. You’ll see.”
“I don’t need to ask which other regard you mean,” she winked. “You were very informative. Especially across the table.”
After several meetings with Frankie and Eileen Whitehead, to talk about business, Catholic schools for the younger children, and possible headaches due to the rather desperate situation in Austria, Frankie agreed to borrow his car to Georg and Maria while they were looking for one.
Little Patrick and Alice were very happy to have their cousins here, new friends in the family, along with George. Friends who would, this time, also be raised in the same faith—the Haverstones might have been rather open-minded, but the respective Churches still had a lot to say about the different choices in faith. And, in fact, it all seemed to be all filled with good omens, to have the entire family in England and to have won back one of the branches of the family.
Frankie was actually very worried for his mother and his sister as well as for his brother in Italy. He was glad he had gotten British citizenship already.
With two cars, and with George, Mary Agatha, and Thomas left to the Haverstones’ nanny, the rest of the Trapps and the Haverstones finally got to visit Friedrich’s house in Hampstead for a dinner, where they would also discuss the details of the wedding.
The family were ecstatic upon seeing the neighbourhood, the heath, and Friedrich’s house.
Anna, Florian, and Karoline immediately asked, “Mama, Papa, can we buy our house here too? So many trees to climb. And when are Thomas and George going to see the house?”
Maria and Georg exchanged a look conveying affection but also the need for patience. “Darling, we will see what we find, what could be practical for our business in sailing and shipping, and many other things. As for Thomas, we will come an afternoon, so that he can play with all of us and then go to bed at an appropriate hour.”
“What about us, then?”
Anna took over. “Well, I am almost eleven! And you two can fall asleep on chairs and sofas if you are tired.”
Georg and Maria looked at each other with a mix of affection, pride, and a little bit of weariness. Maria commented, “Sweetheart, you will be eleven in seven months. And… oh, dear!”
Florian and Karoline had started climbing the oaks in Friedrich’s garden.
And Anna had followed.
Georg immediately scolded them. “Children, we are going to dinner, and you are wearing your dinner clothes! Come down immediately!”
Maria took his arm. “Ah, you and your clothing. I would miss it terribly if you didn’t bring it up.”
Georg squeezed her hand. “Ah, you and your ‘they are children’. I would miss it terribly if you didn’t bring it up.”
“But you are right. Children, those are not the clothes we wear when we climb trees.”
The three living earthquakes jumped down, unfazed, and dirty.
Nancy had been observing them and asking Friedrich for translation. She offered, “Don’t worry. I have two younger brothers. And the concept of dinner clothes is rather foreign to us. I am just glad you are all here.” Then she turned to Friedrich. “I suppose komm runter means come down!”
“It does, darling.”
“Good to know. Something tells me we will have at least one little one to which we will have to say it often, darling.”
The rest of the family was mesmerised by the scene. Friedrich was openly talking of having children in front of the family? He never even admitted he had kissed a few girls! Also, the couple looked so… established.
Friedrich ignored the family and continued. “Well, you would talk to them in English. I will gladly talk to them in German, as Liesl does with George and Mary Agatha.”
Gretl suggested, “Well, since we have already started making plans for the wedding—rather advanced plans, I’d say—we could all go in, see the house, sit down, help Friedrich and Nancy… and maybe discover when exactly you want to marry.” She sent a kiss to Friedrich. “I love you, brother, but—on behalf of all of us—you are frankly scaring us! The language you’ll speak with the children?”
While everyone laughed, Georg made the most peculiar remark, albeit endearing. “You know, Margarethe. You look the most like your mother Agathe. Only your hair is much lighter. But as far as personality goes, you are your mother Maria.”
“Well, Papa, I was birthed by the one, then raised by the other.” Gretl beamed at him, then ran up to her parents and kissed them, starting with her dear Papa, and then going to the only mother she remembered. “I think it’s only fair. But thank you, Papa. It’s a great compliment. To all three of us.”
As they went inside, Georg affectionately confided in Maria. “Something tells us Margarethe and Anna will make our hair go white in the next years. Loving girls, but challenging, stubborn, and very outspoken. Oh, and aware of their beauty.”
“Just remember there is also your personality in them.” She swatted his hand.
“You know, love, I wasn’t complaining.” He kissed her temple.
As soon as they entered the house, the siblings all started snooping and commenting, no matter the age. “Oh, you have so much space! So, jazz party next?”, “Look at that table!”, “You should hang up more photos!”, “You need more records!”, and so on.
Of course, Anna, Florian, and Karoline found the master bedroom, and invaded, with Karoline and Florian taking off their shoes and jumping on it, as Kurt and Gretl—who else?— had instructed them to do.
All the siblings joined in, although Henry, Liesl, and Louisa did exit immediately, noticing what they preferred their parents would not notice.
The bed was already a double bed with two nightstands. And objects. Not all of them Friedrich’s.
They tried to act inconspicuous while planning a series of jests to direct at their brother.
Kurt and Brigitta were the next to notice, but they chose to mock Friedrich without delay, as usual.
“Well, the bed is resistant. Florian is tall for eight. And look at those jumps! But something tells me we should leave the room, unless you want to discuss with our parents why Nancy does not need a lift to her lodging tonight.” The younger children started to go back to the dining room. In a lower voice, he added, so that only Friedrich and Brigitta could hear. “I suppose her lodging is just to keep up appearances. I wouldn’t have expected it of you. Didn’t you want to wait…”
Friedrich was crimson. “She does not live here. But she… sometimes… stays. And yes, I wanted to wait.”
“Don’t tell me she seduced you.” Kurt was scratching his chin, smirking at his brother.
Friedrich’s new nuance of crimson answered that question. Kurt and Brigitta snickered before slapping him on his back.
Brigitta asked, “Are you happy? You certainly look so. And it seems like she is a great fit for you and, frankly, for all of us.”
“We are very happy!”
“And that is, I suppose, also why you want to marry in haste? And I don’t mean the religious implication of it.” Brigitta, as a woman, was more attuned to this problem, although she was also surprised that a nurse and a doctor would, well, forget. Or maybe they willingly accepted the will of God in that matter?
Friedrich attempted to explain it. “Yes… well, she might already… yes. And it’s also why I prefer to have her here often.”
Kurt and Brigitta turned serious. “You know we like to mock you. But we definitely don’t judge you. Cannot judge you. And what matters is that you are all happy.” They both kissed him on his cheek.
“But you will still mock me, right?”
“Of that, you can be sure!” They squeezed his shoulders warmly, offering a level of support that Friedrich had not quite expected. For once, their teasing had melted into something deeper—love, solidarity, and even admiration.
“You both don’t know how much that means to me,” Friedrich said, voice low and eyes shining. “I was afraid it might… well, complicate things.”
Brigitta smirked again, but more gently this time. “Oh, Friedrich. In this family, it would only be complicated if you weren’t in love. Or if we didn’t all like her. And clearly, Nancy can handle us.”
“I just hope Mama and Papa won’t—” he started.
“Be disappointed?” Kurt cut in. “They will, I suppose, a little bit. Then they’ll be proud like they always are. And you’ll see: they’ll come around faster than you expect.”
Friedrich and Nancy had prepared something special. Friedrich had learned during university how to make Knödel, and thus they were served for an Austrian touch, and Nancy had prepared a typical Sunday roast with vegetables from around Woking.
They all noticed how the two worked in team seamlessly, and affectionately. Reserved Friedrich, giving and receiving kisses in front of almost his entire family!
Martha had a rather weird question. “Friedrich, are you living as you did in Innsbruck for university, or are you going to get a staff like we did as a family?”
Everyone looked at her curiously, except for Kurt, Brigitta, and Louisa.
Friedrich simply answered, “I already have a ‘staff’. Just not a resident one. I honestly don’t feel like I would want one. Nancy agrees.” She nodded. “Liesl helped me find some people who have left service but don’t want to change career completely. People we can trust. We have two cleaning maids, and a gardener. I think we can manage the rest. Or we will hire someone temporarily if and when we need it.”
Kurt and Brigitta nodded.
Henry then asked, “Georg, Maria, what have you decided so far? You know both we and the Whiteheads will help you with anything.”
“We were thinking of buying a house in Kensington. Georg says he will try to keep working as he did from Salzburg, mostly by sending correspondence and telephoning. And we would like to be not too far away from you all, as well as to have some green, public transportation for some social life and charity.”
Kurt cleared his throat. “Mama, I think we could help you a lot if we told you what we have discussed. I apologise for not calling a Trapp siblings’ meeting, but we had our reasons not to. Brigitta, Martha, and I will be striking out on our own. And we were thinking of buying in Marylebone, so not so far away for our family and siblings’ meetings. Which we will still hold regularly.”
Louisa added, “I have been staying with Liesl and Henry for four years, but I will soon look for an accommodation for me as well. Near the hospital, if possible. Sometimes, I have to stop at the laboratory to finish a trial, and I don’t want to have a long way home after that. So, I am not coming back home, even though I am not married.”
Georg and Maria felt the blow. They knew the day would come. But they had thought it would only happen as the children married.
Brigitta added, “I know it sounds strange, Mama, Papa. But Kurt and I have been mostly living in Vienna and then Linz anyway, only coming home for some of the weekends and for celebrations. This way, you don’t need to buy a villa. We can lead our lives, and visit all of you regularly, or you’ll visit us. And you know we take our reunions and meetings very seriously.”
Then it was Kurt’s turn again. “Since my sisters will be living with me, there will be no scandal. Although I am rather sure more people in the future will start finding young adults living on their own in a house and not in a boarding house or lodging more… normal.”
Maria wasn’t sure about one thing. “What about you, Martha? You are moving out? Why?”
Henry intervened. “I think this is partly my fault. You all remember how Elisabeth came to work in London? Well, we were contacted to ask whether one of the Trapp sisters would be amenable to work as a secretary and translator, this time for the Parliament and the government. German and Italian are rather crucial now, as you can imagine. Oh, and those weird handwriting styles…”
Martha corrected, “Kurrent and Sütterlin.”
“Those. Martha is going to be very much in demand. Few can read them here.”
“And I accepted, Mama, Papa. I will be fighting the fascists without picking up a weapon!”
All the siblings smiled proudly at her, although the younger ones added, “You really have to visit us often, though!”
Georg and Maria joined hands hidden by the table.
Georg spoke first. “I understand. You are right. This way, we don’t need a huge villa. But we are going to miss you.”
Friedrich suggested, “We are all in the same city. We are all going to have a car, and there is public transportation. Bicycles. We will see each other.”
Liesl added, “And we are all going to holiday a little bit at our estate before that. Our medical professionals will join us as much as possible.”
Maria was a little moved, but also surprised. “It is still… well, it will be a huge change for all of us. But it’s true that we will still see each other. Anyway, shouldn’t we discuss Friedrich and Nancy’s wedding?”
Liesl, Henry, Friedrich, and Nancy exchanged a few stares.
“Well,” started Friedrich, “as you can imagine, Henry has already mobilised the entire city. We were thinking of marrying in the Richmond area. Very beautiful area, closer to Surrey. Green, the river. Yacht clubs. Also, a Catholic Church—St James, an Anglican one—St Mary, and a Town Hall all rather near. And a hotel for the reception, the Petersham. Henry has apparently instilled in both the priest and the vicar… well… ecumenic feelings.”
Nancy added, “And also the necessity not to hold excessively long celebrations. I imagine some of our guests will only be present at the Town Hall and at the ceremony of their choice, but the family will be there for both.”
Friedrich then explained, “We would like to marry soon. We are discussing with the hospital to see whether they can accommodate for our wedding and maybe two weeks of honeymoon in, say, August.”
Georg and Maria exchanged looks, and Maria nodded to Georg as to tell him to speak. “Well, it seems to us like there isn’t much to discuss. Except maybe how to transport all of the guests hence and forth. Now, Nancy, I hope it does not offend you… but I suppose it will be all right if we are paying for it all?”
Nancy offered, “You are very kind, and you are right to think that we cannot afford much. But my family would like to take care of at least a few things. The offer to the Anglican church and the floral arrangement, for sure. Friedrich has already said he is going to pay for my dress, since we have been advised that I am now marrying into Austrian and English aristocracy. He would have married me in one of my dresses, but, you know…”
Maria jested. “Nancy, don’t fight it. I went through it. And it’s not so bad. We all have our sport clothing, our more comfortable clothing… we don’t dress to the nines all the time. And we never let anything go to waste.”
Karoline asked, “Can I carry your trail?”
Nancy tenderly said, “Of course, and your sister Anna too. Thomas and Florian could carry the rings.”
And just like that, the entire family planned the affair. And Georg and Maria noticed how the children— all of them—seemed to grow more assertive and independent by the day.
They had done a great job, apparently. But it was bittersweet to see them all grow up.
Brigitta noticed their expressions, and suggested, “You know this also means a lot of couple time for you, right? Nannies and older siblings to help you, a large capital, the sea, no fascists ruining the mood…”
Henry and Liesl winked, grinning.
Ah, love. There seemed to be so much in their family. Georg and Maria were grateful for all that. No matter what would come, they knew they could count on each other.
And therefore, as Kurt, Brigitta, Henry, and Liesl distracted the ‘patriarch and matriarch’ so that they did not notice Nancy staying at Friedrich’s, as the younger children were still jumping and voicing opinions despite it being way past bedtime for them, the plans for the Trapps, the Haverstones, and the Whiteheads continued.
Georg and Kurt sealed the deals for a house each, in Kensington and Marylebone respectively. Also, Georg bought a Bentley 4¼ Litre, and Kurt an Aston Martin DB Mark II, with shared ownership with Brigitta and Martha.
The family moved then to Haverstone Hall, with the exception of Nancy, Friedrich, and Louisa—who all joined when they could—and the Whiteheads, who went to their estate in Surrey near Guildford.
Friedrich and Nancy had one last obstacle, in truth. Meeting Nancy’s family in Woking.
Friedrich envied Liesl, since Henry’s parents had both been gone by the time they had met. Then he remembered that wishing people dead just because he got clumsy when madly in love wasn’t exactly pious, and concentrated on praying that everything would be all right.
Then he remembered he was currently a sinner, and he went back to his previous state of nervousness.
On the train, Nancy tried to calm him, noticing his nervous mien. “Darling, why so nervous? I told them we’re madly in love and very compatible. They will have to live with that.”
“Darling, you remember how I get when I am nervous, right?”
“Oh, I know, and I am almost looking forward to hearing what could come from your mouth.” She patted his knee.
And finally, they were in Woking. A perfectly respectable Surrey town, where people like the Cleeses clung to appearances like lifebelts. Mr Cleese, in particular, was a retired clerk for a shipping firm, deeply attached to his respectable way of life. And Mrs Cleese was a seamstress, proud of her lacework and what the neighbours thought.
Luckily, the brothers had not been summoned. Two fewer people Friedrich might risk upsetting. He was dressed to the nines, as usual, whereas Nancy was cheerfully subversive in a floral dress, and utterly relaxed.
As they were greeted on the threshold, Mrs Cleese immediately remarked about him. “So, you are our future son-in-law, the Austrian refugee. You are tall. And you truly have hair like an archangel on duty.”
Friedrich obviously could not stop himself from blurting out “You Anglicans believe in Archangels?”
Nancy laughed in her own charming and loving way. The Cleeses’ eyebrows, on the other hand, launched themselves into the upper stratosphere, defying several laws of physics and gravity.
Mr Cleese said, “Well, since we are already on the topic: we certainly didn’t imagine our daughter would marry a Papist.” He turned to his daughter. “You might at least tell him about the C of E. You know, when you are not dreaming your days away thinking about his blond hair and broad shoulders.”
“I am sorry, dad, mom. And Friedrich. I have described your hair as that of an archangel. Either a disobedient one, or one constantly on duty.” She beamed at him.
“It’s a charming image, darling, but I would like to remind you that the disobedient archangel is Lucifer. Satan.” He jested.
“See, dad, mom? He is an educated and witty toff.”
The Cleeses weren’t enthusiastic, despite it. Alas, their daughter had decided, and the tall Papist was admitted to the house, with a silent prayer to the Archangels.
Nancy showed him her former room, and a little bit of the house, then they all sat down for lunch, and tried to talk of the weather, of how great Britain really was, and of the fact that they would have a triple wedding, to appease everyone.
The family agreed to cover the offer to the Anglican church, to pay for the relative floral arrangement, and to pay for the wedding cake, too, as Maria had suggested to give them options that would make the Cleeses feel included.
It all seemed to go well, but then Mr Cleese suddenly expressed a thought he had been nursing for a while now.
“So, Friedrich. You arrived at the beginning of May. It’s now mid-July. You have gotten engaged at the end of June, and are hurrying to marry. Let’s not dance around it. Are you doing it because she’s with child?”
Friedrich could have said many things, and some of them might have even helped in denying such an accusation, but his crimson face told the truth.
The Cleeses obviously were not happy.
“A Papist who got my daughter with child. Woking is going to talk about this for years. No matter how aristocratic you all are on your side.” Her mother was frantic.
Nancy defended her fiancé with rather charming nonchalance. “Actually, he wanted to wait. I seduced him. He stood no chance, really.”
“Nancy Cleese! That does NOT make it better!” Mrs Cleese looked like she was about to faint, and Friedrich wondered whether they would let him help her.
Her father had even more to say. “So, was it that mechanic loser who made you a hussy, Nancy? I knew it.”
“What do you care? Friedrich does not care! We are in love, perfectly compatible, and happy!”
Friedrich truly didn’t care, but he would also prefer not to know too many details. Which he was bound to learn if the Cleeses continued discussing Nancy’s past.
Her mother asked, “What will the priest and the vicar say?”
The couple looked at each other. “That we will both need a nice long confession the day before the wedding, and then for selected Trapp family members to bunk with each of us the night before the great day.”
In the end, the couple commented, “Well, that was not too bad. They are coming to the wedding, are covering some expenses, and no offences worse than ‘Papist’ and ‘hussy’ were uttered.”
They might even kiss them on the cheek after the ceremony—the Anglican one, at least.
Hertfordshire was an idyll.
True: Friedrich, Nancy, and Louisa had to go back and forth. But having the entire family enjoying Haverstone Hall and the nature during the summer was a needed escape for everyone, after so many challenging years and trials.
Henry and Liesl led the family in hikes and bicycle tours when the weather was at least passable, a problem that England partially shared with Salzburg, although Maria and Liesl confirmed that Salzburg was much worse: the sky could remain dark for weeks with no respite from rain.
They explored the undulating hills with patches of woodland, opening up to green meadows and cultivated fields. They saw firsthand how the tenants respected the young Earl and Countess. They fell in love with English savoury pies.
Thomas and George, three and two, sometimes struggled with their one-year gap—but sweetness won out, and their bond deepened. Their mix of languages was also very endearing. Liesl said they would grow up speaking both languages without problem, as after all had been the case for her, Louisa, and Friedrich, and partially for the others.
Baby Mary Agatha challenged the title of most cuddled baby, recently held by Thomas himself.
Anna, Florian, and Karoline made friends with some local children, and that improved not only their capacity of getting into trouble, but also their English. However, Henry and Nancy had to conceal the meaning of a few new words from Georg and Maria. The children didn’t discriminate what to pick up and what not…
The presence of the nanny allowed for Georg and Maria to have some couple time, too, and they felt the need to fully enjoy Hertfordshire nature, although Maria wondered a few time whether they might scandalise someone. Of course, they had no idea that the tenants were already aware of how passionate the Earl and Countess were… and thought nothing of it.
Of course, they also had no idea that Nancy had impressed on Friedrich the importance of familiarising with English nature, as well, as a formative experience for a soon-to-be subject of His Majesty.
One afternoon, Louisa, Kurt, Brigitta, Martha, Gretl, and a very well-hidden Anna were on the terrace sipping gin tonic and looking at the couples in the garden, strolling and kissing.
A wistful Kurt said, “Who knows if I will ever find love, too!”
Brigitta nodded, “So far, we definitely had no luck.”
Louisa, Martha, and Gretl looked at them curiously. “That sounds like a lot of disappointment,” Martha suggested.
Gretl warned, “Or maybe high expectations? We surely have impossible examples before our eyes. Or maybe it’s too early?”
Kurt answered, “Well, too early for you. You are seventeen! I am twenty-three!”
“Oh, you are old!” snickered Gretl.
“Nancy is twenty-three and is marrying Friedrich!”
Louisa, ever the realist, added dryly: “I don’t think there’s an expiration date. Well—apart from when someone literally expires.”
The siblings all shouted, “LOU!”
Martha was optimistic. “Listen, we will all start a new life around September. We are bound to meet many new people. Gretl, have you decided, then?”
“LSE. Economics. I’ll try and see if I like it. And I am staying with our parents for now. As you say, I am seventeen. We’ll see what the future brings.”
Anna, as usual, intervened scaring everyone out. “Do you think someone will ever propose to me?”
Kurt motioned for her to come to him, and took her on his lap. “Heavens, you are growing. Soon I will not be able to have you sit on my lap. Anna, you are ten, and you have two doting parents, ten adoring siblings, an equally adoring brother-in-law, and soon a sister-in-law. Oh, and a nephew, a niece, an uncle and aunt, and two cousins. You have all the love you need at your age.”
“And as much as we will appreciate your capacity of sneaking in unseen and unheard, you really should tell us when you are here. We are bound to talk about things you should not hear at ten, otherwise,” Louisa lectured her.
Martha threw her a napkin. “You are one to talk!”
Brigitta reminded them all that “To be honest, eavesdropping has consistently been one of our best skills. We cannot pin it on Louisa only.”
Suddenly, Florian and Karoline appeared, too, and demanded adoration in turn, and the discussion was over.
Then the happy couples were back from their romantic exploration of the gardens, and the nanny brought the little ones. The usual adoration of the youngest children ensued.
But then, Maria held her hands together, as though in prayer, and worded her request.
“Henry, could we… take a picture? Just us Trapps? Before September comes, and everything changes again. Thomas wasn’t born when you and Liesl married, and then we were always taken by so many things. Of course, we can also take a picture also with you, Nancy, and the grandchildren, but I would like to have one memory of us Trapps still together.”
Henry kissed his mother-in-law. “You are taking this whole ‘striking out’ thing hard. You can tell me, you know. And you too, Georg.”
“One day, you will understand, Henry.”
“I am going to take the camera.”
And so, Henry and Nancy helped the Trapps arrange for the historic picture.
They gathered on the lawn where the afternoon sun, unusually golden for England, lit up their summer clothes and brought warmth to every face. Henry adjusted the tripod with the reverence of someone framing a masterpiece.
Henry insisted that a patriarch and a matriarch had to sit in the middle. Liesl picked up Thomas, to symbolise the union of the siblings from the oldest to the youngest one. Anna obviously wanted to be near her, and so Liesl put a hand on her shoulder. The younger ones sat in the front, the older ones stood in the back, but Karoline asked Friedrich to hug her from behind, and Florian did the same with Kurt.
It was a beautiful picture. They were all smiling. Especially because Gretl suggested to say “Bugger Hitler”, and even Georg, who truly did not agree with his children talking like that, had to laugh.
Then they asked the nanny to take another with Henry, George, Mary Agatha, and Nancy, too.
The entire family wanted a copy each of both pictures.
Later, they would all recall the way the light filtered through the trees that day, the hum of bees, the easy laughter of the children, the faint smell of lavender and grass. A perfect pause in time.
But even pauses must end. August neared to an end. Slowly, inevitably, the family began to scatter.
Friedrich, Nancy, and Louisa returned to London—partly for work, partly to prepare the wedding. Louisa had gladly offered to help, if only to spare Henry and her father extra trips to and from the city.
One afternoon, while waiting for a group of medical students she was meant to introduce to cultural protocol, Louisa lingered by the hospital bulletin board. She was no Alexander Fleming, but her passion for research over clinical practice had made her one of the most trusted young doctors—the kind professors and consultants liked to entrust with first-year orientations and delicate cultural briefings.
As most students still were male, and as she was female, not to mention an attractive tall and slender blond one, it often happened that students would dismiss what she said and try to do what they thought they should be doing: usually something passed down by older students, something they had read somewhere, or something they just thought more practical. Anything, as long as it didn’t come from a woman.
Sometimes, of course, the problem was the opposite, and it was that she had too much attention, and not for academic or scientific reasons.
She had had a long experience managing all kinds of situation, and therefore she managed these inconveniences as well. However, her superiors—still impressed by her results as both physicians and researcher—tried often to convince her to find a compromise between her approach and the reality of what medical students were.
That day, she started walking students through a basic sterilisation step for slides, demonstrating how to carefully pass the glass through the Bunsen flame. The entire group seemed keen on ignoring her. She heard clearly a few comments about her blondness, her Earl brother-in-law, and her long legs. She noticed everyone reading the textbook by themselves instead of listening, watching, and taking notes.
And, of course, the one student she selected to begin with the experiment did not check with her first. He plunged ahead.
The result was minor steam burn, a dropped glass slide, and a shocked yelp. Louisa didn’t flinch, but she made a mental note to tell the story to Friedrich and Nancy. Then she coolly commented:
“Excellent. You’ve just infected your bacteria sample, your skin, and possibly the next three students. Please write a 500-word essay on Pasteur and the price of male hybris.”
The student was flabbergasted. “Pasteur… and hybris? Both in the same essay? What would be the connection?”
Louisa didn’t miss a beat. “That, my dear Mr Smith, is the thing you have to find out by yourself. Especially since it will be a while before you can find out anything on a slide.”
She hadn’t noticed Dr Bennett leaning against the wall and listening. After she had dismissed the class, he approached her.
“Dr von Trapp. You’re terrifying. But quite right.”
She glared at him. “Terrifying?”
“In the best way,” he replied. “Please continue.”
“If that is your sarcastic way to tell me you are going to snitch to the senior consultants…”
“No, no, I am serious. As serious as I was when I thought ‘Heidi’ took place somewhere near where you used to live.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Dr Bennett, I have to say, I am frankly surprised we managed to co-author a paper.”
“You are? Surprised, I mean? You are a brilliant junior doctor. And a polyglot, with a mother and sisters who love their spelling and grammar. That’s very handy, too.”
Louisa looked at him with mistrust but also with a tiny bit of amusement. “Maybe I will not propose that we write a paper on male hybris and the condition of female doctors in England. Maybe.”
A few days later, she was following the senior consultants doing the rounds, with all of the doctors and students on duty that day.
There was always much to learn, and also the possibility to answer or contribute something, thus striking a good figure. And yet, some students and junior doctors preferred to look at female specimens, such as nurses or, well, Dr Louisa von Trapp.
If they chose to daydream about her, it was none of her business. They were ruining their career, not hers.
If they distracted people by whispering or snickering, things changed, and she usually intervened, although to no use most of the time.
That day, Cartwright and Harington had decided not just to whisper, but, apparently, also to challenge each other about something like ‘who can nonchalantly brush Dr von Trapp’s shapely backside and thighs during rounds.”
Alas, their bad. Louisa lulled them into a sense of false security, only to nail Harington’s white coat sleeve to an empty mattress with a scalpel, with surgical precision nonetheless.
Harington screamed as if she had cut him. She smirked one of her evil smirks. “You have a long way to go when it comes to nonchalance, Harington.”
Dr Hardy, Dr Davies, and Dr Bennett looked at the scene with some surprise, but they seemed almost sympathetic—Dr Bennett even nodded in a sort of assent. Senior consultant Dr Smith, who was leading the rounds, seemed less so.
And, as she had feared, the following day she was called to discuss her methods with all of the seniors, including Dr Bennett, since they often worked together in research.
Dr Smith began. “Dr von Trapp. You are an incredible doctor, and your contributions are always very appreciated. However, we must remind you that medical students, in their youthful exuberance, sometimes… misinterpret professional proximity. The Haringtons, understandably, were quite distressed by the manner in which their son’s person was… engaged with during rounds. We must maintain decorum.”
“I aimed at his sleeve, and nailed the sleeve only. If I had wanted to cut him, or mutilate him, I would have done it, Dr Smith.”
“Dr von Trapp, could you please resort to raising your hand and telling a senior if you notice unprofessional behaviour? There is talk of war, the medical world is under pressure because the government, the Parliament, and the Armed Forces want us to be prepared. We cannot waste time discussing with terrorised students, juniors, and their families. And we cannot waste time reminding you of what we consider manners here. We trust you’ll understand.”
Louisa just nodded, but marked Dr Bennett’s presence for later, a presence she considered a betrayal.
She kept using punishment essays as a means of disciplining, and also a healthy dose of sarcasm, plus some unnecessary comparative dissecting human/disgusting creatures—just to watch some particularly problematic students squirm—but toned down the rest of her gestures.
Except in one case.
Cartwright, already on her black list, was being particularly cocky by claiming her instructions for studying slides about basic infections “impractical.”
She gave him a fake note: “Dr Bennett has authorised student Cartwright to proceed with the quinine titration protocol unsupervised.”
As she suspected, a day later, none other than Dr Bennett appeared as she was reviewing the notes from the day’s rounds. “Did you write this?”
Louisa didn’t even blink. “I just wanted to test how stupid he is. I suppose some of the consultants must have fainted.” She looked at Dr Bennett, expecting him to be furious. His expression wasn’t particularly friendly.
Then he started laughing.
“Dr von Trapp, you are a genius, really. And I suppose you must be angry at me.”
“Well, you sat in the jury with the consultants. You signed your own death warrant.”
“Louisa… Dr von Trapp, I sat there because I wanted to defend you. To talk about your intellectual gifts, to talk about the difficulties that women like you and Dr Lovelace face. I would be thrilled to continue publishing with you about infections and traumata. But I would be happy also to talk about Pasteur and hybris, if you prefer. Or quinine titration, if you are still in a combative mood.”
She studied him for a moment.
“How do I know you are not lying just because you are terrified of what a genius like myself could do to you?”
“Well, you’ll have to trust me when I say that I admire your brain and your passion for science very much. Oh, and I rather enjoy the chaos you cause. It makes this place feel more alive. And fairer, too.”
Louisa answered with a non-committal “Mh-hm.”
“You don’t trust me.”
“I’ll spare your life for this time, and give you chance to convince me that you esteem my ‘brain’ so much. I honestly thought you were only kind because I was newly graduated.”
“You have been a doctor for a year, now. Past expiration date for that kindness, Dr von Trapp.”
She looked at him, still unconvinced. “We’ll see how you fare at Friedrich’s wedding, Dr Bennett.”
“What does that have to do with your intellect?”
“Any gathering of Trapps ends up in chaos. Or in intellectual challenges. Or both. See you there, James.”
Notes:
We have said a final goodbye to Austria. The family is now settling into a new, bustling life in London, but what does the future hold for them? Will they ever see their friends and family in Austria again? And, most importantly, will Friedrich and Nancy's wedding day go smoothly, or will Louisa and the other siblings' chaos take over?
Chapter 28: Two weddings, a baby, and the funeral of peace
Summary:
From the golden days of late summer 1938 to the fateful morning of September 1st, 1939, we follow the extended von Trapp family as they settle into their new lives in London. Friedrich and Nancy’s wedding is a joyous—if chaotic—affair, complete with all the mischievous Trapp antics. While the older children build their careers and find love in unexpected places, Georg and Maria navigate their new life and enjoy precious moments of peace and freedom, sailing the Thames and reconnecting with family and friends. Amidst the laughter and the arrival of a new generation, a darker reality looms. These months of sweetness and hope are a fragile prelude, shattered by the news from Poland.
Notes:
The title of this chapter, "Two weddings, a baby, and the funeral of peace," is a nod to the well-loved film Four Weddings and a Funeral.
The phrase "Eia eia alalà" used in the chapter is a reference to a war cry created by Italian poet and nationalist Gabriele D’Annunzio, which was later adopted by the Italian Fascist regime.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The logistics of the Friedrich von Trapp – Nancy Cleese wedding had been declared a public health hazard.
“Honestly,” Henry had muttered, standing outside Richmond Town Hall in his formal best, “if anyone falls ill or gets injured today, they’re done for. Too many doctors and nurses at this wedding—everyone will wait for someone else to take the lead.”
Mr Cleese, who was trying to keep close to his fellow from the C of E, nodded at the Earl’s words, but still wanted to let anyone feel his disappointment for this affair. “Although I am honestly disappointed you did not get the Royal Family involved, Lord Aldbury.”
“My divine Lady Aldbury and I have recently welcomed a new baby. We didn’t have much time to crash any royal dos, between that and our family fleeing the Nazis. Besides, His Majesty is more of a family man. We really should check what Kent is doing right now.”
Mr Cleese understood nothing of what the Earl said, but simply nodded. So did Mrs Cleese.
Louisa had chuckled. “And unemployment in the entire area from Richmond to Strawberry Hill is at an all-time low, thanks to the number of drivers hired to shuttle people between three venues and the hotel.”
Mr Cleese, already intimidated by the number of Trapps surrounding him, inquired once again about the arrangements.
Brigitta volunteered. “So, Liesl and Henry — Lady and Lord Aldbury — will be Friedrich’s witnesses at both the civil and the Anglican ceremony. Louisa and Kurt will be Friedrich’s witnesses at the Catholic ceremony.”
“You are a complicated family. Is the Countess then Anglican?”
“She converted before marrying Henry. Lord Aldbury, that is.”
Even the most composed among them had lost track of the schedule: first the Town Hall, then St James for the Catholic blessing, then across to St Mary for the Anglican rite. Nancy had quipped she now understood why some people just eloped.
That, and the fact that they were rather sure a little von Trapp was on its way. They would be completely sure in one or two months; however, she had her wedding dress fit a little more loose than usual, just in case. Not that she was as slender as most of the Trapp women. Only Gretl seemed to be a little plumper, apparently because of her incredible physical resemblance to the late Agathe.
But once all the vows were said and the last Amen whispered, everyone seemed to relax, as though they'd run the world’s most complicated relay race — and somehow still crossed the finish line.
Friedrich was now a happily married man, and Nancy was now Mrs von Trapp, and proud of it. Their kisses were all rather scandalous, to be honest.
Kurt and Brigitta ranked the kisses they had witnessed so far. “I’d say Friedrich and Nancy’s is the most scandalous of all. Even more than Papa and Mama’s, which had struggled to remain within property. Liesl and Henry’s was almost tame, with just that little hint of passion.”
“Well, Liesl and Henry have a political role. They had to be more contained,” observed Martha.
“Yes, believe me, that was the only reason. None of them is restrained in private. But you might already know that.” Louisa grinned her evil grin.
Gretl observed, “So, I am not the only one who has occasionally seen or heard things?”
Anna had luckily not understood what the real topic was. “I have seen them all kiss. Isn’t that nice?”
A choral “Yes, of course” was the answer, followed by some embarrassment and a little bit of relief.
The reception at the Petersham Hotel marked a gradual shift even more than Mr and Mrs von Trapp’s kiss.
Friedrich and Nancy knew that the siblings had something in store for them. It was only a matter of time. The fact that many people from Barts and the London Hospital were there was not a deterrent. And, after all, why should it have been?
Georg and Maria were helping the bride and groom receive all the guest, along with the Cleeses who, however, didn’t seem to enjoy the task. Aunt Hede, fresh from Paris, was keeping an eye on Florian and Karoline, whereas the nanny had Thomas, George, and Mary Agathe.
Meanwhile, Kurt, winking at the others—including Anna—went to ‘check on something’.
The first moment of hilarity was Kurt’s speech. Affectionate, but also full of brotherly jest.
“Dear brother! You cannot imagine how much all of us are truly happy for you. To see you and your lovely Nancy so happy. We dearly needed a sign of hope after all we have been through, after all you have been through. Also, we will never let anyone forget that your Nancy calls you ‘Dr Very Proper’.” All the guests laughed at that. “We, who have known you for longer, could testimony that you can be very improper, if you want.” He winked. “Of course I am referring to brawls. What were you all thinking, you miscreants? Anyway, another thing. We truly love you, Friedrich. All of us. And this is also why we will have your wedding present from us brought over now. Love, Elisabeth – Louisa – myself Kurt – Brigitta – Margarethe – Anna – Florian – Karoline – Thomas – honorary sibling Henry.”
And the waiters brought over a giant pie, possibly a Sheperd Pie. But why?
Friedrich and Nancy exchanged curious looks. Anna was snickering without dignity. Georg, Maria, and Hede were thrilled to learn what the terrible siblings had thought of this time.
Louisa and Anna stood up and helped Kurt explain.
“This has been partly Louisa’s – mine – partly Anna’s idea. Your wedding presents are actually in the pie. We thought that a doctor rotating in inner medicine and surgery, and a nurse should be able to surgically fish out their present! Enjoy operating on this Steak and Ale Pie, Mr and Mrs von Trapp—or rather, Dr and Nurse von Trapp!”
That was the signal for all the siblings, Henry as honorary sibling included, to cackle, even Thomas, who already understood what was going on and had even contributed a few pennies.
Maria commented to Georg and Hede “This reminds me of a time that now seems so long ago. I would almost expect a pinecone to come out of that!”
Even Frankie had to laugh. “Well, at least the time of black eyes is over.” Bobby chortled too.
Georg admitted wistfully, “But we will always remember that time with joy,” and squeezed his wife’s hand.
The hospital teams started supporting the bride and groom in their effort to fish out several coins to clean up, and an elegant watch each, well-protected by an extra case and by some waxed paper. Of course, the hands and forearms of the couple were a mess after that, but no one cared.
It was then time to dance, finally. It was not meant as something formal or overwhelming, but just as a nice moment for those who wanted to listen to music or to dance a little in between conversations about medicine, or refugees, or ecumenical issues.
Louisa and Liesl had asked the orchestra to open with a slightly adapted Mein blondes Baby by Marlene Dietrich, which the siblings then sang while the musicians tried to make a danceable tune out of it. They announced it as “Since we could not keep the promise to Kurt to bring him to Berlin to see Marlene Dietrich in 1933—you all know why—and since the lyrics remind us in jest of Friedrich, this is yet another surprise for you.”
The number was very appreciated, and Friedrich also translated the lyrics for Nancy, only to be asked by her to join the siblings in singing at the end.
The orchestra then played some of the favourite tunes by the Trapps and the Haverstones. People were free whether to mingle or to dance, and it was all rather pleasant.
Liesl even commented, “It almost looks like an event organised by Aunt Elsa, you know. Slow tunes by Benny Goodman, Ray Noble…”
Henry grinned. “Don’t worry. As soon as the guests are either less proper, or drunker, we will change.”
“Do you think Friedrich might worry for Nancy?”
“Even if there is a new Trapp coming, she must be at the very beginning. I remember you being very spirited in your first months, my lovely Lady Aldbury.”
“So… Sing Sing Sing it is?”
Kurt, popping out from behind while dancing with Aunt Hede, said “Oh, yes!”
Louisa hadn’t been wrong when she said a Trapp gathering usually contained an intellectual challenge, chaos — or both.
This one, of course, had both.
None other than Cecil Haverstone had decided to crash the wedding. Married to the daughter of a very right-leaning Conservative MP purely to spite his brother, and usually kept at a safe distance by both Henry and Marianne, he still carried a long list of grievances—mostly against his family.
And naturally, the first official Trapp-Haverstone event was the perfect opportunity for revenge. A response, perhaps, to Lord and Lady Aldbury crashing that BUF meeting.
“Good afternoon, everyone! What a nice family gathering! Ah—and a few unfamiliar faces. New friends already?”
He helped himself to a champagne glass, then moved on to introduce himself to what were clearly the Cleeses, brothers included.
“Cecil Haverstone. Lord Aldbury’s brother. A pleasure.”
He then tried to be nice to his brother, to Ricky and Marianne, to the rest of the gang, and to the Trapps. But the months since the Anschluss had made everyone even more intolerant to certain leanings, and it was no use.
So, Cecil did what he could do best.
“Ah, you all despise me. Is it because I lean the other way, in this gathering of radicals, Labourites, Liberals — and whatever else you are? You’ve heard of Spain, I hope? The fall of Gandesa? The not-so-successful Battle of the Ebro? Your dear comrades are retreating, and while you toast freedom and weddings, Madrid drowns in Bolshevik daydreams. Even Hemingway’s running out of typewriter ribbons, last I heard.” He took a sip.
“But don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll all buy a Picasso to remember how righteous you are. Always on the right side of history, with money and connections ordinary people could only dream of.”
Friedrich and Kurt began to charge at him. Even Georg was twitching. But Henry beat them all to it.
He lunged with a speed and violence no one had ever seen in him, punched his brother in the face, then grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.
“How dare you? If you dislike the Republican cause so much, why don’t you volunteer for Franco, instead of ruining Friedrich’s wedding?”
Cecil—red-faced, but utterly shameless — rasped even while half-throttled:
“You… only one… heir… can’t kill me… and… you… Republican?”
“I might not be a Republican,” Henry snapped, “but I am certainly an enemy of Franco. As is this entire family. You may have noticed—we don’t like fascists.”
The Catholic priest and the Anglican vicar rushed over, alarmed.
“Lord Aldbury! Both our faiths are quite clear—homicide is a terrible sin…”
And then—Louisa stood up. Elegant, poised, and utterly unfazed.
Everyone turned. Silence. They all waited.
“Henry, come on. They’re right. Hold him by the wrists behind his back.”
Henry obeyed.
Louisa stepped forward — calm, deliberate, and surgical.
“Relax, Cecil. As you can see, I carry neither fire poker nor anatomy textbook.”
A beat.
“I simply want to understand: do you antagonise us because you’re a fascist? For that, we do have a solution. Though it requires fewer witnesses.”
Her voice dropped slightly.
“Or is it because you’re the second son? For that, psychoanalysis. By the way, Henry didn’t choose to be the heir—though I’m rather glad he is.”
“God, do you ever shut up, Louisa?”
She adjusted her skirt, revealing a generous stretch of leg under her gown as if merely fixing a stocking—and then, in one smooth, fluid motion, she rammed her knee into him with surgical precision, her entire body weight behind the blow she dealt.
Cecil howled.
“I’m sorry—was that ‘eia eia alalà’ or ‘Heil Hitler’? Either way, you’re butchering it.”
She walked back to her table, utterly unbothered.
The doctors in attendance—all of whom admired her in some way—were profoundly grateful to be sitting at a table that could conceal the unmistakable effect she’d had on them.
Especially Dr James Bennett, who had been slowly falling for her for quite some time.
And now—now he was speechless.
A political statement. An act of violence. A glimpse of stocking. All in the same movement.
That was Louisa: footnotes and revolution. Legs and irony.
He rose and followed her back to the family table. If he could only make her see he loved both her brilliance and her beauty—and he was no hypocrite, Louisa was stunning—then he would gladly sit at that table, with her wonderfully tight-knit and unconventional family of hers she loved so much. At the next wedding. Well, the one after theirs.
Meanwhile, as Henry struggled to drag Cecil away, James heard one of the boys—Florian—lean over and ask:
“Mama, can I throw a Knödel at him?”
Georg gave him a disapproving Captain’s glare. But Maria said:
“No, sweetheart. We do not waste food.”
Florian shrugged.
“Right. True. Waste not.”
And threw a fork instead—handle first—with the same perfect aim as Louisa’s knee.
Georg raised his eyebrows and was ready to intervene.
But when he saw Maria laughing—laughing hardest of all—he said nothing.
Nancy announced to Friedrich, but loud enough to have everyone hear her, “You were right. Trapp events really are… peculiar.”
Friedrich smirked.
“And how am I supposed to top this for our tenth, twentieth, or thirtieth anniversary?”
He looked around.
“We’ll need more frequent sibling gatherings. The four young ones will surely provide plenty of material.” He turned to Florian. “Gut gemacht, Bruder!” — Well done, brother!
After that, Kurt and Henry decided that the time for proper dancing was over, and the time of real amusements had come. Kurt made the announcement.
“Now, we all want you to pick your favourite dance partner. Yes, Papa, you and Mama. No, I don’t care you are fifty-one, Papa. You don’t look it, and you are going to dance anyway. Aunt Hede, you are always the best—picking a nice young doctor. That’s the spirit!
Our orchestra will now increase the beats per minute, starting with Benny Goodman’s Sing sing sing! Wait a minute, so that I can pick a nice partner myself, then go on and improvise as Mr Goodman does…”
Kurt picked a lovely nurse, and everyone was paired to their satisfaction, so that all the guests danced to the uplifting tune.
Even the youngest joined in. Louisa, dancing with Dr Bennett, was clearly having the time of her life — and he, in turn, was thrilled watching the entire family dance in the most improper way. Even the famous Captain. Oh, and he was thrilled by watching Louisa dancing with him, near him. Louisa, who clearly thrived in these situations. And he loved every second of it, too.
As the bride and groom left for their France honeymoon, hand in hand and laughing, the guests were still having the time of their life.
Louisa was back at work, her brief second Hertfordshire holiday over, and her plans to leave the Haverstones’ townhouse soon back on the forefront, as well as her new research: mainly infections and surgery. ‘Pressure from above’—politics and Armed Forces: she was actually interested in many other topics, but producing qualitative research was difficult when one was spread over too many fields. So, she complied, and hoped better times would come.
“Good morning, Dr von Trapp. I trust your last days in Hertfordshire were pleasant. Or, at least, blissfully free of male relatives crashing parties with their hybris, or of titration chaos.”
“Good morning, Dr Bennett. I thought we had established I am chaos incarnated, and you enjoy my chaos.”
“I do, but sometimes we all need some respite. You know, to come back with even more chaotic potential. As long as no chaos touches our literature to review. I took the liberty of organising the ones I have already read, and the ones I would suggest we review. Your turn, Dr von Trapp. There is never enough literature, after all.”
Louisa checked what he had selected, and saw the journal with Friedrich’s and her paper on Prontosil. She smiled.
“You really want us to quote the terrible Trapp duo?”
“I really do. Two young doctors who dare to do what they did—the one getting a new drug from Nazi Germany and trying it on his mother, the other revising his part of the article about the case, Austria, and Germany, then adding an English perspective. Article in both German and English. I requested you to work in this department because I was fascinated by the article, to be honest, and the senior consultant told me you were that Louisa von Trapp.”
“Oh.” Louisa looked at it curiously. “It is… a gesture of great esteem. If it’s true. I never have proof of your statements, after all.”
“Then we’d better get to work. Maybe you will see that I truly love working with you.”
She started making her literature list, then they worked on the trials and experiments they intended to carry on.
“We’ll need at least six weeks to assess postoperative infection rates with and without sulphonamides. And someone has to break the news to the ethics board about the rat abscesses,” she sighed.
“We should also look into aseptic technique variations—did you see the Danish paper on surgical glove perforation? Fascinating.”
And, she admitted, she should have known. Dr Bennett had always been collaborative and professional in their previous research. He had listened to her, challenged when needed but without belittling her.
But she certainly wasn’t used to men who remembered what she’d said days earlier and laughed with her, not at her.
Well, unless it was her father and brothers.
Louisa had never been in love, never been kissed or touched. Her idea of love was her entire family. Or her passion for science, after that.
Now, she was definitely alerted, but she had no idea.
So, one evening, she did something rather unexpected.
At the tea room they usually met, she suddenly said, no prelude or introduction, “You know that I have never been in love? Never even kissed a man? My experience with love is… different. I love my family above all, then I love my job. More the research part than the clinical, to be honest.”
James Bennett’s eyebrows shot up. “What prompts this declaration? Did you assign a punishment essay about Pasteur’s love life this time?”
Louisa, staring into nothing, answered in a Friedrich-like ramble: “No, actually it’s your fault. All that talk about you enjoying my chaos, then saying that you love working with me. And you being always professional and respectful. I think I trust you, now. Somehow. And… well, you must know that, for example, I love my father very much, but he has twice disappointed me. When my biological mother died, he distanced himself from us, up until our current mother showed up as governess. It hurt so much. Then… well, he once took a political faux-pas. Mama was patient and showed him the way back to what was right, but it hurt so much, again, because I had just been expelled from university in Graz, and he had unwittingly financed those who had me expelled. It hurt again. I trust Mama more. And I trust all of my siblings. Even if I love him.”
James Bennett had no idea where she really wanted to go with all that, or better, he didn’t want to delude himself. “Dr von Trapp… I have noticed how close your family is. It is incredible, and rare. As for your father, well, we men—we humans—aren’t perfect. And you should never expect him, or any other human being, to be perfect. Not even your siblings.” He sighed. “You probably know I am divorced. Many things went wrong, I have to say, but it would surely help to know that nobody is perfect, and that things need to be… discussed, or worked on. Which is probably what your mother did with your father.”
“Were you in love with her?”
“You are very direct!” He chuckled. “If you had asked me at the time, I would have said yes. Now… I am not sure.”
“These things are complicated, hey? I almost prefer studying bacteria with undisciplined students.”
“Are you going to assign essays on convalescence in people in love versus people with an unhappy love life, then?”
They both laughed. “That is a terrible idea. Too arbitrary. But… now that I think of it, it’s a good idea for when you really want to give bad marks to a student. It’s impossible to get done right.”
James left it at that. He understood she was probably thinking about so many things. Her declaration—never in love, never even kissed, adoration for her family—told him she should work out things for herself.
And Louisa was doing just that. She knew all about love kisses, touches, even sex. Not just her studies, but her siblings’ confidences. It had all seemed so… foreign to her.
She was now questioning whether she was ‘loving working with James’ or whether the curiosity that had gripped her before Friedrich’s wedding and the more recent alertness about him were plain old falling in love.
She noticed he dimpled slightly when he laughed at their jokes. Even those about “scalpel days”, the days when medical students really begged to be disciplined like in the old days.
One day, his fingers were stained with iodine and pencil lead. She had no idea why that detail had suddenly caught her attention, but now, looking at those fingers, she thought that he had beautiful masculine hands. She was an expert, after all, considering the attractiveness of the Trapp and Haverstone males (except Cecil.)
Dr Bennett was not ugly. Women did not exactly turn their heads at him, but he was attractive in his own way. Henry would probably joke he was rather “anonymous”, “average”, or something like that. Light brown hair, light brown eyes, tall and slender.
If spending time with him always felt like she was feeling now, working intensively with him, she could even imagine… oh, that was rather curious. The first time she had ever imagined herself being with a man.
She had rung at Dr Bennett’s door. Not because it was wise. Not because it made sense. And certainly not because it was something a sensible woman with any sense of decorum would do.
But questions—real ones—could not be asked over case reports or black tea. And even if he was not home, or with someone else, that too would be an answer.
Henry would have laughed himself into a hernia, calling it a Victorian romance cliché. But Henry wasn’t the one who had started noticing manly hands and laughing dimples.
Well, Henry would definitely need to come up with of his barbs about clichés, because Dr Bennett—James—opened.
“Dr von Trapp? Did something happen?”
“Sadly, no. It has been a rather disappointing time for the study of male hybris, don’t you think?”
“Well, as long as no one proposed titration of Aspirin, or gin…”
“Gin tonic, Dr Bennet.” She grinned at him.
“Ah, an expert in quinine, I should have known.”
“Well, could I come in? I really would like to discuss something with you.”
Dr Bennett seemed a little surprised, but he let her in without discussion. “I am not sure I can offer you a gin tonic, though.”
“That will not be necessary, thank you.”
He invited her to sit down in a rather essential but elegant sitting room, full of libraries with books. Mainly medicine and biology, but also a few novels. Oh, and a gramophone and a few records.
“Good taste. In music, too.”
“Thank you. So, to what do I owe this surprise visit?”
“I am frankly surprised you are not asking how I got your address.”
“I am frankly surprised you think I’d be surprised. Whatever it is that has brought you from Mayfair to Mile End must have been rather important. And we know how you deal with obstacles.” He grinned at her.
“And you still find it fascinating?”
“Very much.”
“Well… here it is. I really think now that I trust you, that I know you appreciate my brain… I think I have fallen in love with you. Granted, I have no experience at all. But the signs all point to that. I want to spend time with you—your interesting sitting room only cements this. I have imagined kissing you, and being touched by you—all the things some of my siblings have confided me about. And I remember you expressing some form of admiration. In a milder form, of course. You never said you have fallen in love with me.”
James was studying her, his expression calm but a little bit amused.
“’Dr von Trapp, are you here to carry out an experiment?”
“Do you think an experiment would help me confirm my hypothesis, Dr Bennett?”
He looked at her again, and she noticed his eyes darkening. She knew very well what that meant.
He stood up and walked towards her.
“Well, as the senior, I think I should help you start the experiment. First of all, we check whether we have all the equipment, the expertise, and the time. Is someone waiting for you somewhere, Louisa?”
“No.”
“Good. As for the expertise on my part. I absolutely adore your brain, your chaos, the way you love your family, the way you think, and would be a hypocrite if I didn’t tell you I adore your looks. But I would never have fallen in love with you just because you are stunning. You know you are, anyway.”
He took her hands and helped her stand, then gently, slowly traced the curve of her lips with one finger.
“Now you'll have to trust me. Do you?”
Louisa nodded, breath catching. That simple touch had already made her knees feel unreliable.
“In that case,” she murmured, trying for composure, “for the safety of this experiment… I suggest you put at least one arm around me.”
James smiled—slow, deliberate, adoring. He obeyed, wrapping an arm around her waist.
Then he kissed her. First, just the ghost of his lips against hers. Then more—more certain, surer of her answer as she melted into him, arms tight around his neck, a quiet moan slipping out as the world narrowed to touch and warmth and want.
Still trying to catch their breaths, they were smiling at each other like idiots. And, for the first time in her life, Louisa had nothing against looking like an idiot.
His right leg was still over hers, and he was leaning on his side, their bodies still touching, completely naked.
“So, now it’s the time to check the results of the experiment. I would say we more than enough elements to conclude that you are, in fact, in love with me.”
“Oh, yes. I would say both my brain and body wanted to join with you. Unmistakeably. The data show full cognitive and physiological alignment.”
He threaded his fingers between her hair, and leaned in to kiss her
“In fact,” Louisa reprised, “I think I am going to procure myself a diaphragm as soon as possible. I really would like for us to be as spontaneous as possible, and I don’t think condoms help in that matter.”
James looked at her more amused than surprised.
“I forgot to mention that I love your directness and, well, honesty.”
“Well, then… I hope you will still love me when I tell you that… I am not really interested in having children. I’d rather write papers and books with you.”
James smiled. “I couldn’t have worded it better. I much prefer to keep your brain, your wit, and your gorgeous body for myself.”
She brushed his chest, humming and eliciting the very same sound from him. “Now I understand why Mama does that often with Papa. Yeah, sometimes they are not as good at hiding from us as they think. Brushing your man’s chest is really… something.” She kissed him, and he answered, lying back on her.
“You might have noticed that touching the person you love is rather… an experience. I just hope my neighbours haven’t called the police, by the way. I would have never thought you’d be so… loud, darling. But then again, your family does seem to have a lot of personality, passed down those genes. It must come with it.”
“Oh, yes, I can tell you my parents, as well as Henry and Liesl, are loud too, even if they try to muffle or keep it under control. But I think it’s just… normal? Healthy?”
James started to kiss her on her neck and then moved down, and Louisa started moaning again.
“We can either test how loud you can be, or we can test how good at muffling we are. Your choice.”
After her navel, he moved lower — to her legs, kissing them reverently, slowly, thoroughly.
“I have to confess that, since your gesture at your brother’s wedding, I’ve fantasised about worshipping your legs while you corrected my articles. All of them.”
His mouth didn’t stop at her thigh.
Louisa was not, in fact, good at muffling. Well — she couldn’t be perfect.
She got back to the Haverstones’ townhouse by 9:30 a.m. Henry and Liesl were sitting at the table, reading newspapers and sipping coffee in a rare moment of companionable silence.
Louisa wondered how it would be with James. Would they become chatty, like Henry and Liesl? Well, since she planned on moving in with him in a few days, she’d learn soon enough.
Both looked up and greeted her. Liesl asked, “Were you on duty at the hospital?”
“No. I have the afternoon and evening shift today.”
They hadn’t noticed she was still dressed the same as when she’d gone out yesterday. She walked over, poured herself some coffee, picked up a section of the paper, and flipped a page as if it were just any other morning.
Then, calmly taking a sip, she announced:
“You know, Liesl, you were absolutely right. Intimacy with the man you love is amazing.”
Henry and Liesl sputtered their coffee in unison.
Liesl gasped. “Lou! Could you please learn the art of introducing a topic gradually?”
A stunned Henry started to rise. “I… think I’ll go to my study.”
Louisa looked up, innocently. “Why? You’re the one Liesl tells me all the details about.”
Henry turned crimson. She hadn’t known that was physically possible. She could have mentioned Emil too, of course, but that was ancient history, and probably best forgotten. Who cared about Emil.
She sipped again. “Besides, aren’t you curious about the next addition to our family?”
Henry sighed and sat back down. “You’re right. So, who’s the lucky man?”
“Dr James Bennet. The one I’ve been researching with for a while. Our parents certainly can’t complain about our ten-year gap.”
Liesl’s expression shifted. She knew exactly where the trouble would be. “They’ll complain about him being divorced, if I remember who he is. But then again, you’re twenty-five.”
“Oh, he only had a civil wedding. We can still do a proper Catholic one. With incense and everything. James is already very amused.”
Louisa took another sip of coffee, then added brightly, “Anyway, I’m moving in with him in the next few days. Thank you both for your hospitality all these years. I love you so much!”
Liesl stared at her as if she’d announced plans to join the Conservative Party. “Lou! If our parents—or the priest—find out…”
“Oh, Liesl, it’s much closer to the hospital. And we’re getting married anyway.”
Henry scratched his chin, visibly uneasy. “If your parents come looking for you here, and you’re in… where does the lucky man live?”
“Mile End.”
“Well, we’re the ones who’ll be blamed. For letting you live in sin.”
Louisa laughed. “Blamed? Don’t be silly. They’ll probably ask whether I hurt you on my way out.”
It was another dinner at the Haverstones’ townhouse, since their parents and the older siblings were still setting up their new London homes.
This time, Louisa arrived with James. Nancy and Friedrich, fresh from their honeymoon, could see the writing on the wall immediately; the others were a little perplexed, although they noticed Kurt and Brigitta’s inquisitive stares and caught that they were on to something. A little disappointing to see their parents so lost; but then, it was Louisa bringing a man. It was strange.
Henry and Liesl didn’t betray anything, in a display of their lordly poise.
During the hugs and kisses phase, the secret was unceremoniously outed by Louisa herself.
“Well, some of you have already seen Dr James Bennett, one of the researchers I work with. He was at Friedrich and Nancy’s wedding, too. Now I would like to introduce him as James, my future husband. First a civil wedding, then a perfect Catholic one. Oh, and I will go by Louisa von Trapp Bennett, since I have already published as von Trapp.”
Henry and Liesl stifled their giggles, whereas the rest of the family had gone silent. Only Nancy commented, “I absolutely love being Mrs von Trapp. These family meetings keep getting better and better!”
James did not disappoint. “I see there is a common thread uniting us, spouses of Trapp family members.”
Henry added, “Well, to be honest, sometimes we are agent of chaos ourselves. Case in point, my lordly self, and of course our dear matriarch, who is probably currently reciting some charming Latin prayer in her head because someone is marrying Catholic despite marrying a subject of His Majesty. But she will soon be back with us again.” He winked at his mother-in-law, who swatted him playfully.
“James, we welcome you to the family— and thank you for agreeing to the Catholic ceremony. As more of our children grow up, I fear we’ll need to become experts at this, Georg.” She brushed her husband’s arm affectionately.
Georg sighed. “Well, welcome, James. I suppose if you were at Friedrich’s wedding, you already know enough about us. For example, I see Karo and Anna already approaching you for your hug and kiss.” He smiled tenderly at his little girls, and mussed Karoline’s hair.
“Oh, sir, I have also been briefed. We are scientists, you see. We are meticulous.”
“None of that ‘sir’. Georg. And my wife is Maria. Or… Henry calls us patriarch and matriarch in jest.”
“Not a jest, Papa. Eleven children, and now grandchildren,” suggested Martha.
James was promptly smothered in affectionate Trapp chaos, with Friedrich, Kurt and even Florian—imitating his older brothers— slapping him on his back while congratulating.
The dinner was rather demure for Trapp standards, apart from the usual jokes about “Did she threaten you with a fire poker or with a venomous spider to get you to say yes?” and a few tales stretching from the old Pola times to the more recent Salzburg, Graz, and London moments.
Of course, halfway through the meal, after observing his new soon-to-be son-in-law, Georg also had to ask, “Were you married before?” James had to admit that he had married civilly and then divorced.
Maria turned to James with that signature serenity of hers—somehow always sounding like a warning. “We do hope there will be no breaking of vows this time.”
Georg, seated beside her, gave James a slow, pointed nod. “Indeed.”
Louisa didn’t miss a beat. “So far, there’s only been the breaking of a few slides and some scratches on a microscope.”
There was a pause. Most of the table blinked at her, confused.
Friedrich choked slightly on his drink. Nancy coughed into her napkin. Kurt raised his eyebrows; Brigitta buried a laugh in her glass. The four exchanged stares that confirmed they had all unravelled the enigma. Only then did Liesl and Henry understand, in turn, having some of the facts already and noticing who had come to the right conclusion.
The rest, mercifully, remained clueless.
Georg frowned. “I… don’t think I understand?”
“Good,” Louisa said, smiling sweetly, and returned to her potatoes, James even more in awe of her.
Aunt Hede was so happy, looking at the couple coming out of Westminster Cathedral “In a matter of weeks, two weddings in London with my family. If I didn’t know how much you have suffered, I would make a joke about being grateful to Hitler,” she said to her brother as they were watching the couple being congratulated by some colleagues. “Oh, and once again you managed to only twitch your jaw a little instead of crying while accompany one of your daughters down the aisle.”
Georg smiled wistfully. “I knew the time would come. But I am glad we still have some children at home, and all of them visit us and their siblings regularly.”
Maria joined them again and took her husband’s arm. “Hede, if you’ll excuse us, we just have an important task, then we will be back.”
The couple had tried not to antagonise Louisa before the wedding. They had simply asked her whether he meant to take his vows seriously this time. But now they wanted to be clear. Very clear. The word ‘divorce’ had truly terrified them.
Georg took James apart briefly and said, “Remember that if you break her heart you will have to answer to me.”
Maria added, “Actually, the one you really have to watch out for if you break her heart is myself. Georg is too gentlemanly. Oh, and don’t forget the Trapp siblings’ unity!”
James simply smiled. “I see whom Louisa takes from. I will definitely do everything in my power to make her happy and to make it work. But remember: she will do the same. And, I daresay, that’s how you raised her. She credits you especially, Maria. Trust her.”
The two worried parents suddenly felt relieved, and smiled at the man, who simply smiled back and moved over to his new bride, saying “I suppose I have to be ready for the Trapp siblings welcome.”
“Can you believe you and I got married at Westminster Cathedral? We would have rather repurposed one of our laboratories… and yet…” Louisa grabbed her new husband’s arm, trying to look prouder of him than he did of her.
Less worried about appearances, their reception was rather informal and full of jazz and swing from the beginning.
The siblings did come up with another charming idea as a trick on the poor couple.
Friedrich and Nancy had helped the rest of the siblings come up with a series of ‘research findings’ by Louisa, such as the several reactions to the tricks and little revenges she had played since she was a girl. Then came the ‘conclusions’ about why the two were compatible and why they ‘discovered’ their love. All complete with fake charts and graphs, such as the ‘reaction time of governess related to the revulsion caused by the fauna used to scare her’, or the ‘potential of the couple to discover new ways of branding fascists and repulsive people with a fire poker by working together and maximising their potential.’ The most beloved graph was the one about their discussion about the book ‘Heidi’, which, after all, had been a pivotal moment for James.
If only the siblings had known that the couple had framed their getting together as an experiment…
And it was not the end of it all, for a couple like theirs.
While Louisa and James were doing a round of the guests, in a moment in which they were relatively alone, she leaned in, her voice low. “In the spirit of scientific progress, I’ve had the most incredible idea for tonight. Another experiment.” She let her hand briefly brush his backside.
James’s eyes widened —and darkened, and in a mock-panicked tone, he replied, “I am terrified and aroused at the same time.”
Louisa smirked. “Doesn’t that happen every day with us?”
It was October 1938. Gretl had started reading Economics at LSE, and the rest of the children were attending a Catholic school. The older children all had their lives, and were blissfully happy. They said so, and everyone could see that, too.
The promised meetings and dinners were regularly planned, all accurately dovetailed. After all, a Countess, two doctors, two engineers, a secretary and translator, and a student of Economics must have the necessary skill to pull it off. And the younger ones wanted to see the older ones as well as George and Mary Agatha as much as possible.
There was also a memorable inauguration of the Marylebone house: first a family event, with just the right amount of Trapp chaos to avoid getting in trouble with their parents because of the younger siblings’ presence; then a party, to which Georg and Maria were present too, “to dance and mingle with young people”, and in which Gretl was allowed to participate. It did not reach the fame of the historical party at the Whiteheads, but it came close. And Maria loved seeing Georg mingle amidst jazz ensemble and young people of London, not to mention dancing in his arms all night and enjoying his jealousy.
The political divide within the family was clear. Georg and Maria tried not to dwell on the Munich Agreement, while Henry, Liesl, Martha, and Sir Winston were furious at the latest gesture of appeasement toward Hitler. The rest of the family, trusting in the others, chose instead to concentrate on their new life, which was finally picking up momentum. There was school, work, running the house, visiting family, enjoying a social life, and even opportunities for charity, thanks to Liesl, the Countess of Aldbury.
Liesl and Maria became deeply involved in two main charity projects: rescuing Jews and political opponents by raising public awareness and funds for incoming refugees; and fundraising for any form of organized rescue of Jews—especially children—from Nazi territories.
With Henry's characteristic involvement, they also attempted a few rescue missions themselves, but their most significant success came with the launch of the Kindertransport a month later. Liesl and Maria, along with Eileen Whitehead, hosted several successful fundraising events for the cause.
On the private front, Nancy and Friedrich had already announced that a baby would arrive, probably in March or April.
Georg and Maria had done the maths, of course, then decided not to comment, not to ask. Strictly speaking, they hadn’t been completely exemplary either. They might not have crossed the boundary, but…
Anyway, the couple had decided to take a day for themselves while the children were in school and the weather still was acceptable: a day was dedicated to them. Just Georg and Maria. No other thoughts.
“So, my dear sailor, how long have you planned for this? Greenwich—what a weird pronunciation—and then sailing along the Thames a little bit?”
“It was one of the thoughts that kept me going while we were going through the pain and hassle of selling and renting out, of packing and hoping. You and me, alone, on the water. Not a single fascist banner in sight.” He kissed her briefly. “A pity we didn’t do this in, say, June. We could have left the children with the nanny, then sailed from the early hours until the sea, then back the following day. Well, maybe we’ll do this next June.”
“It sounds amazing. The Haverstones’ nanny will soon have enough money to pay for university for several generations after her.”
“Isn’t that one of your goals, Baroness von Trapp?” He tried to tickle her. “Besides, our children and grandchildren are a joy.”
“To us, certainly. Other might have different views.” She hugged him from behind, leaning on him.
“Did you like the Royal Observatory? And the park?”
“Oh, yes. I am frankly surprised you didn’t have us settle here. You could go every day to the Naval College and demand adoration, then walk back home to me for the rest.” Her tone had turned very suggestive at the end.
“Heavens, woman. You are distracting. And the perfect woman for a sailor.”
“Should I expect to be attacked here at sea, Captain?”
“I would. You know I would. But we could damage some of our cargo ships if I am not careful with our yacht. Brigitta, especially, would not be thankful. She is planning all the departures, the flows. It’s amazing how much I am learning from her and Kurt now.”
“Well, the Royal Navy still esteems you, too.”
“For the military part of it. And because I kept myself in the field by reading, exchanging ideas.”
“Georg, our family shows that no one needs to be alone in anything. You, Kurt, and Brigitta working together, for example.”
“True. It has never been better. Frank is happy, too.”
Inspired by the others, Georg and Maria decided on a slim non-residential staff for their house, too. They had fewer responsibilities: basically, just the British companies, and then occasionally some help with Frankie’s Surrey estate out of kinship. The house in Kensington was spacious enough for seven people, without being a villa fit for aristocracy as the one they had in Salzburg. With some help, they managed to store everything they had brought from Austria and the first new purchases, and they asked the children to keep the house as tidy as possible. Georg half-joked, “a little bit as it was when I was a cadet. Try to keep tidy and clean as possible.” And Maria had added in jest, “but there will be no whistle this time.” Gretl appreciated it immensely.
Liesl and Maria often visited during the day, either to have the Haverstone children bond with their Trapp relatives, or to discuss charity endeavours.
Nancy started visiting, too. Luckily, she and Friedrich didn’t need the money: she would go back to work after her recovery, of course, since it was a calling for her and since Friedrich supported women’s careers, but between the demands and the risks of her profession, and Friedrich’s worries, she had gone on leave. Louisa did what she could, seeing as her career was very demanding, but she tried to visit at least once during the day when she was not on duty.
It was nice, meeting either as women of the family, or joining Liesl and her high-society acquaintances, including Aunt Eileen, although Nancy still felt out of place, since she hadn’t enjoyed Maria’s training by Elsa and the rest of the family. A thought that made Maria slightly melancholic for an instant—those old days, their country, the hope of building something meaningful in Salzburg— before she went back to thinking how much they gained, despite losing so much and despite getting older.
One day, though, Nancy visited the Trapp house alone, and seemingly wanting to address something in front of tea. Maria and Georg were very curious.
“You know, you never really said anything about… a few evident issues, and it was very kind of you. But knowing Friedrich and your family, I thought I should do two things.”
Maria nodded. “Go on, Nancy. We are here for you, too.”
“Well, I will begin with the easiest one. I am converting to Catholicism.”
Maria and Georg’s eyebrows arched. Maria, the more theologically oriented and the more attuned to Nancy, offered her commentary. “I… we are glad, of course. It just seems… I am not sure what. I understand Liesl: hers was a merely political move. But why are you converting, Nancy? I am sure Friedrich didn’t ask it of you.”
“Because our children will have to be raised Catholic, as per our vows. And, as Liesl said about her own conversion, the two faiths are more the result of political differences than of theological ones. I personally don’t care much about labels, but I do care about Friedrich and our children. Starting with this one.” She brushed her belly.
Maria and Georg exchanged looks and a smile. “Well, we welcome you. Just tell us if you need anything. We can be your godmother and godfather, for example.”
“That would be very nice of you. The other thing… well… sorry for my bluntness… I know you know Friedrich had… expectations. To arrive to the altar a virgin. And I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed in him.” She exhaled. “I would like you to know that… well, it was not his fault. Not at all. I seduced him. He stood no chance from the moment I decided I wanted him. He tried, poor darling, really. My parents already know—Friedrich tends to either blush excessively, or to blurt out things when under stress. It really doesn’t help when keeping a secret. Oh, and my father suspected it already because we were in such a hurry to marry.”
The couple was quite surprised by the honesty of the young woman, who clearly loved their son enough to confess to such a thing.
However, later, when Nancy had gone back home, Georg sought Maria out. For a moment, he was quiet—then he simply erupted into laughter.
“Georg, are you all right?”
“I’m sorry, darling, but as a man I just found it… amusingly endearing? Endearingly amusing? Poor Friedrich, seduced by his fiancée. Which, by the way, was not that different from what happened a few times to us.” He grinned. “We might not have crossed the boundary, but you did try my strength now and then. You were very persuasive. You women—honestly, you have no idea of the power you hold over us. Except for Nancy, apparently. She clearly does.”
Maria’s face was briefly cross, but it quickly softened. She opened her mouth to scold him but paused, catching the look in his eyes.
Maria crossed her arms—but her stance was more calculated than angry. “Since you are so improper,” she said with dangerous sweetness, “I am going to show you exactly how much power I have over you, Georg von Trapp.”
He leaned back, grinning. “Yes, please.”
Their life almost seemed too calm. Many of them often joked that something big was coming. And Henry and Martha only smiled politely at those jokes, seeing as they knew the higher echelons were planning for war. It might come to nothing, of course. They would keep hoping that Hitler would stop.
Their Christmas holidays, at least, were happy and peaceful. Hede decided to come to London, again. They sent a postcard to the rest of the Trapps and Whiteheads in Vienna, hoping it would arrive and be welcomed, just to tell them they weren’t forgotten. They also wrote to Robert in Italy, of course, but with fewer worries. Robert actually wrote back affectionately, and also reported about the Austrian branch of the family.
Nancy went into labour in the early hours of the 28th March 1939. And Louisa, who thought Henry had been melodramatic and excessively cautious for his two children’s births (he had been, indeed), was forced to ask her brother-in-law for forgiveness for those harsh words.
Dr Friedrich von Trapp, her favourite brother and her dear colleague, had requested an obstetrician. As if they were royalty. He had also read a lot of literature on the topic, “just in case”, and asked her to come, too, since she had assisted with both George’s and Mary Agatha’s birth.
“Friedrich, you partially assisted with Thomas and Mary Agatha, too!” Louisa wanted to calm her dear brother, but then she realised the man was almost useless. He was, indeed, good at dabbing Nancy’s forehead, at telling her he loved her; at holding her hand. He managed to take her vitals a few time; but his intellect was seriously impaired during the ordeal.
He first lost himself in one of his nervous babbles, speculating about the obstetrician’s presumed faith: Friedrich guessed he might be either Anglican or atheist, and even asked whether Catholic prayers might disturb him. He soon discovered, however, that the man was a German refugee—raised Lutheran, but with Jewish roots. At least that made Nancy smile between contractions: she adored his nervousness and his babble. She also found herself wondering how her Austrian husband could have missed the clearly German name on the referral.
Louisa, meanwhile, muttered, “Friedrich is missing entire parts of his brain in this moment.”
Then he tried to console Nancy by proclaiming that he would make up for all her pain… during their first night, when they would “find their way back to one another.” Louisa swore the obstetrician briefly considered having Friedrich committed. As for Nancy, Louisa concluded that only the deepest love could —and must—have kept her from strangling her husband on the spot.
These, of course, were just the main manifestation of a general irrational nervosity and anxiety, which Friedrich justified by saying “I love her so much. I worry for her!”.
“Brother, where were you when they explained to us childbirth at university? How can all this be a surprise to you? Be rational! It will be over, and you will be happy parents!”
James found her tale immensely amusing… and also, the ordeal reinforced the Bennett-Von Trapp couple in their proposition never to have children.
And in the evening of the 28th March 1939, Sarah von Trapp was born, bringing even more joy into the Trapps’s lives. First and foremost, of course, Friedrich and Nancy. But also Georg and Maria, who welcomed another grandchild, and all the siblings, who also joked about how this niece would be a Trapp too, and not a Haverstone.
Little Sarah was dark-haired, and Friedrich hoped she would grow up to have Nancy’s red-brown hair, whereas Nancy expressed the wish for at least a child with Friedrich’s angelic light blond hair. But she was beautiful and healthy, and theirs, and they were overjoyed.
Louisa kissed Friedrich, but did not refrain from adding, “You even cry as much as Henry. My dear, sweet brother! Let’s just hope you can remain a little rational when the children inevitably get the flu or a cold, though!”
Sadly, in those very days, Spain was falling. By 1st April, Franco had won, with Germany’s and Italy’s support. They discussed it as they were all at Friedrich and Nancy’s helping them out with cooking and the house while visiting.
“It’s official,” Henry said, setting the paper down. “Madrid has fallen. Franco’s declared victory.”
“And our newest member Sarah is five days old,” Maria said softly.
“Light in the middle of smoke,” Georg added. “God help the world.”
Kurt and Martha, who were closing a few Knödel that they wanted to leave in the fridge for the new parents, so that they could have a quick meal for days, were sceptical.
Kurt spoke first. “Franco would say God was on his side. I am not sure why all these people insist in mentioning God when they prepare to kill, execute, sentence to forced labour, or whatever else he has in mind now.”
Martha added, “It seems like many are already trying to flee. Let’s hope Britain can host some of them, like they did us.”
Henry and Liesl exchanged stares, then Henry shared what he knew. “We did host some children, but to save them from war, not on political grounds. Many have already been repatriated. Hosting Republicans? That would be impossible. Just think about it.”
Liesl was realistic. “If we got news of a few interesting cases that we might try to help on, let’s say, personal grounds… but this time, our power is limited.”
Friedrich said nothing and just kissed his daughter in his arms, as if to say “I’ll protect you always, and your Mama and the rest of the family too.”
August 1939
The beach was golden, the sea calm, and the sky so defiantly blue it felt like an act of resistance in itself.
Hede’s idea, this time. And Georg had gladly sailed the entire family over from Dover to France on their yacht for this.
They had gathered as if nothing could touch them—children tumbling across sand dunes, Friedrich and Kurt building a ridiculous sandcastle with Patrick, Florian, Thomas, and George, while Nancy sat under a parasol with baby Sarah asleep in her lap. Louisa and James, barefoot and laughing, chased Anna, Karoline and Alice in a splash of white skirts and water. Henry and Liesl called to Mary Agatha to make her toddle towards them: the little girl appeared determined to walk before summer's end.
Maria and Georg sat on a striped blanket, shaded by Hede’s enormous straw hat and thermos of peppermint tea. He held her hand in his, both quiet for a moment, listening to the waves, watching their family—their impossible, improbable family—grow and scatter and return, like the tide. Frank and Eileen were reading and checking on the children regularly.
Somewhere nearby, a French vendor pushed a cart of ice cream. Brigitta, Martha and Gretl argued in low, conspiratorial tones over which flavour to pick, all the while checking out the vendor and wondering whether he might be single and available.
No one talked about Germany. Or Italy. Not today.
The children all gathered under the parasols, a while later, to eat and drink as well as to cuddle the youngest ones. It was so sweet to see so many couples in love, so much affection not just between parents and children but also between the siblings, and so much companionship with the rest of them.
Hede loved to make fun of her brother. “Ah, Henry is right, brother. You are a patriarch. And you are loving every second of it! Look at this!”
Georg just laughed at his dear sister.
Hede reprised. “And none of this would have been possible without your dear matriarch. Maria. You know this, all of this, was possible thanks to you?”
It was a rather loaded statement. But everyone who heard it, knew it to be true. Maria had saved Georg and the children long ago, and had steered them all towards who they were really meant to be, not towards what society wanted them to be.
They looked at Nancy and Friedrich, and Henry and Liesl, and Louisa and James, so in love and so happy to have such a large family by them. They looked at the rest of the children and grandchildren, all enjoying life. They looked at Frankie and Eileen, so content with their life, too. They looked at Hede, a successful artist and intellectual, with a charming life in Paris, and her family now nearer.
They looked at each other, wordlessly, and they knew.
He did say to her, that evening, “You are the love of my life,” before loving her like a devoted sailor. She just kissed him, and answered his passion unreservedly.
Friday, 1 September 1939
The phone rang in the Trapp house in Kensington that morning.
“Papa? It’s Kurt. The BBC just announced that Germany invaded Poland. I fear this is it.”
“War?”
“War. No declaration yet, but I fear it’s coming.”
Georg didn’t speak right away. What could he say? It was true.
His second war.
But this time, he was no young officer. He was fifty-one, a husband still, a father to eleven—not just to three, a grandfather to three.
He turned to Maria.
One look, and they both knew: nothing would ever be the same again.
Notes:
The wedding prank was inspired by the one organised at my brother's wedding: only, it wasn't pie but a horeca-sized jar of Nutella. :-)
As you can imagine, we begin the Second World War with the next chapter. I will add chapter-specific warnings to each chapter that deserves them; anyway, be prepared because many chapters will progressively deal with the reality of World War Two seen from the perspective of our heroes. There will still be comedy and romance, but drama and tragedy will often prevail.
Chapter 29: When the night comes falling from the sky
Summary:
The Second World War begins, and the Trapp clan has to face it. Martha and Henry are already working for government and parliament. What will the rest of the family do? We will follow their choices and their adapting to war from the beginning to the end of the Phoney War, with Georg leading as the loving and experienced patriarch.
Warning: very emotional chapter.
Chapter Text
Sunday, 3 September 1939, 11:15 AM
“This is London. You will now hear a statement by the Prime Minister.”
The Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, spoke:
“I am speaking to you, The Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final note stating that unless we heard from them by 11 o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received and that consequently this country is at war with Germany.”
Chamberlain’s voice had cracked faintly through the radio, uttering the words no one had wanted to hear.
No one of them had gone to Mass that morning. They were all gathered around the radio at the Haverstones’ townhouse—the entire Trapp clan, and even the Whiteheads.
Only Martha was missing—for obvious reasons: she was where things happened. Maybe she had even translated or typed one of the decisive missives or telegrams.
Georg punched the table. The sound was sharp, but not sharp enough to drown out his breathing.
He tried not to cry. He really tried. Mary Agatha and Sarah were too small: they could get scared.
“Last time it was madness. I know. I was there. And I was lucky, even then. But now…”
His voice broke.
“Now I have a wife seventeen years my junior, eleven children, three grandchildren.”
He breathed heavily.
“I can’t—”
And then he wept. Because this time he knew.
The technology. The hatred. The speed of it. The BBC reports. The maps in the newspapers. The Germans were advancing towards the river Vistula within the first seventy-two hours, and they were at war. And all of London was holding its breath.
And no one knew where it would end.
Maria pulled him into her arms and held him, both trembling.
Henry was the next to weep, silently at first. Then, shaking. No one mocked him.
“I understand, Georg. I feel the weight, too. Being a Lord, a father. It’s all heavier now.” He cleared his throat. “I will stay for a while. Hold you all.” He sobbed again. “But then I must leave—the House of Lords. Chamberlain will want to address Parliament. There will be urgent business. Martha’s already at work. Our first hero of the family.”
Liesl bowed her head, tears falling, pulling her husband into her arms, too. “I prayed. I truly did. But… we know the Germans.” Together, she and Henry caressed George and Mary Agatha.
Kurt and Brigitta murmured:
“Martha has barely slept. She was out all night. We kept hoping she’d come home, wake us up, tell us it was over, that peace had been saved.” They hugged each other.
Friedrich held Nancy’s hand.
“For many of us… it’s the second war we’ve seen.”
They caressed baby Sarah’s cheek tenderly.
Gretl and Anna stared into nothing. Florian instinctively ran to Kurt, followed by Thomas. Florian feared Kurt would be drafted, and Thomas… he simply understood. Karoline ran to her parents and hid between them.
Patrick and Alice ran to their parents, too. Frankie commented, “I guess this is also the end of any communication with Maman, Joan, and Constance. Not sure about Robert in Italy.”
Louisa commented, “Italy seems not to be interested in fighting at the moment. And this despite all agreements and declarations of love between Mussolini and Hitler, But I wouldn’t trust them. We, at least, never trusted them, uncle.”
Frank sighed. “I am sorry. I am sorry for how opportunistic Robert and I have been. But we honestly would have never thought that, eleven years after our discussion, we would be at this point.”
Henry stood up, wiping his face. “Well, and now we are all going to be very sorry. Forgive me. I have to go. Martha, the government, the Parliament, the Crown— they all need me. You’ll probably learn more via the BBC or the papers. I am not sure how much of me or of Martha you will see. But remember that we both love you, and love this country, its democracy, its willingness to fight.”
Later, the eerie sound of the first air raid siren was heard. It was a false alarm, but it was enough to herald what would come.
Friedrich, Nancy, Louisa, and James decided to go report to their hospitals anyway. Little Sarah remained with the family.
Wednesday, 6 September 1939
An urgent family dinner had been called. Attendance was non-negotiable—even Martha was expected, though no one scolded her for being late. No nannies tonight; the little ones were to sit among the adults. Everyone needed to hear this.
The usual affection was there, but no one had the strength to joke, or to be like they used to be. The conditions for the dinner had already told much of what the reason for it was. Some dire announcement, no doubt.
Henry and Martha looked like people who hadn’t slept in a while and had been beaten up by it all.
After they had finished, Henry nodded towards Kurt. He stood up, and so did Friedrich, Brigitta, and James.
“We all wanted you here because we want to tell you in person. And to say goodbye to you all. I volunteered today. Royal Air Force.”
Friedrich said, “Infantry for me. I’ll be serving as a Regimental Medical Officer. They’ve said I’ll start as Lieutenant.”
Brigitta said, “Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. They took me in right away—my engineering background helped. Likely in a control room, as a plotter.”
James said, “I will be in the Royal Army Medical Corps. But I will stay mostly at my old place, researching for the Army. Just the odd field assignment. Louisa will join as a civilian attached to the RAMC, too, so we will be still working together. I think mine will be the easiest task of all, and I will spend most of my time with my dear wife still: we have been working with the Armed Forces for a long time already.”
There was an eerie silence. Henry and Liesl clearly had known of it. Also, Henry obviously knew all about conscription, since he had been among those to ratify the bill, and had probably even given them advice about where to enlist.
Martha broke the silence. “I have discussed it with Kurt and Brigitta. We will see who needs the car, but I suppose Kurt and Brigitta will need it more than me, so one of them will keep it, and we’ll pass it around when needed or when possible. On the other hand, I will search for a small accommodation near Westminster. Somewhere I can throw down a mattress and get a few hours’ sleep before work. Walking distance, not negotiable. Kurt and Brigitta would bring their things to you, Mama, Papa. We are selling the house.”
What could they even say? They were all adults—the only one they could legally stop was Martha, who at least was not going into the Armed Forces, and yet had been the first one to go to the frontline, somehow.
Maria decided to wait before speaking. She prayed silently— the Lord, the Holy Mary, Agathe. That they guide the family in such a dire situation.
Georg, on the other hand, had much to say about what was happening.
“You are volunteering? Now, I am not speaking so much about James. Well, James, clearly this works for your career—safest option, and you stay with Louisa. Fair enough. I am sure you will not incur in more risks than we will all do as civilians.
But you three? Friedrich? Kurt? Brigitta? Have you forgotten what it was like, waiting for me at the Erlhof? Never knowing if I’d come back?”
And first and foremost you, Friedrich! Married a year, your little girl just five months old? Are you out of your mind?”
Henry and Nancy exchanged stares. Henry spoke first. “I know it all sounds so unreasonable. But you all have to know that we will all be asked to do our part. You have already noticed the sirens, the blackout. We are discussing other bills. There will be no escape. They are just choosing how to do it, Georg. If they had asked me to help them find a safer position, a safe posting, I would have done it. But it’s their choice.”
Nancy intervened, too. “Georg, I know what you mean. Friedrich and I have discussed it all. I understand why he is doing it. He wants to help people, and he wants to protect us. I will go back to work myself, keep the nanny. I will cherish every minute he and I will spend together. As an officer, he will have more leave, and he might even stay in Britain sometimes. And then… we will accept that we will miss each other terribly, as will so many other couples in the country.”
Friedrich kissed her hand, then took over. “Papa, they are coming for us. They came for the Spaniards, too. They came for the Czechoslovak. They came for the Polish. I will not let them touch my wife, my daughter, and any of you. And I know I can be the perfect Regimental Medical Officer with my skills. I won’t drag the Lord’s name through the mud with war and violence. But every sign tells me this is the path I must take.”
Brigitta’s turn, now. “I am the perfect woman for a control room, or an operation room. I will be fighting that way. You know I’ve still got a score to settle with the fascists. And so does Kurt. By the way, we are leaving you all our handbooks, notes, and blueprints. Your task, dear Papa, will be to take over our companies while we go to protect you.”
Kurt pulled out a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Call it a kind of speech. Martha looked it over for politics and accuracy. The others contributed. But this is the explanation for what we are doing.”
He started reading.
“For all the fallen or imprisoned ones from 1919 until today. For all the occupied countries. For this country, a beacon of democracy and the place that hosted us when we had to flee. For all the people who live in it.” He looked at Martha, and they both raised their left fist, while Friedrich and Brigitta only nodded. “For the Spanish Republicans, slaughtered while we lived our lives, and while Soviet Russia watched—and then shook hands with the Nazis.” They lowered their fist. “For all this, we have to go.”
Maria started sobbing: she understood what they meant more than the others, her memories from Ottakring now being reshaped into a warning they had not heeded until it was too late. Louisa and James nodded. Gretl wiped her eyes and nose. Anna gripped her father’s arm. Florian and Thomas ran to Kurt, Friedrich, and Brigitta to hug them. George imitated them, followed by Mary Agatha. Patrick and Alice looked at their parents, completely lost.
Henry tried to joke. “This Liberal understands why you did it. And even if you join the Labour, I will not complain. But please, Martha, Kurt: just promise me you’ll never do that salute in front of Sir Winston.”
Martha kissed him on the cheek. “We will not. But they deserved our salute. And Sir Winston may be the right man to fight this war, I think. Even though he is a Conservative. I know you think the same, too.”
Georg lowered his head. “I suppose exceptional times require exceptional solutions. And if what you say, Henry, is true, we will all be asked for a lot.”
Henry and Liesl, hands joined, nodded. “We will. All of us. You, too, will probably have to work at night if the Navy asks you to help. They will respect your will to stay away from danger, but who knows. You might need to travel to a base once in a while. And there is no guarantee the base will not be attacked. But you will not deny their requests. We really don’t know what is coming.”
Everyone heard Maria’s inhale. “But whatever is coming, it will not be good. If you and Martha say so, it is not just rumours. And Georg seems to know it too.”
They all nodded.
Frank raised his glass. “To this family, and its willingness to do what needs to be done. To our bond, may it never be broken, no matter what comes.”
They all toasted to that.
Friedrich, Kurt and Brigitta then announced, “But if this is our last meeting as civilians, we need to make some good memories.”
“Next time we will be in uniform! Come on, let’s have a few dances, before Henry and Martha fall asleep on their chairs!”
“I am playing ‘Let’s dance’ by Goodman!” Kurt, of course.
It was a little surreal, but it was true. They needed a moment to smile, or to pretend to. They constantly exchanged partners, and tried to keep the tears locked up inside, as locked as their blacked-out windows. They danced to a few tunes, until Henry and Nancy moved to the records collection and picked up a specific vinyl.
“This,” Henry explained, “is an American song from the last war. This is a British version, of course. Coltham and Parker. It’s sad but full of hope. We think it’s the perfect goodnight for today.”
“Though we’ll probably all end up crying,” added Nancy, who then pulled Friedrich into her as Henry did the same with Liesl. The two then sang along with the record.
Smile the while you kiss me sad adieu
When the clouds roll by I'll come to you
Then the skies will seem more blue
Down in Lover's Lane, my dearie
Wedding bells will ring so merrily
Ev'ry tear will be a memory
So wait and pray each night for me
Till we meet again
The gramophone crackled softly, and the song—a relic of the last war, now called into service again—wrapped itself around them. Love filled the room more fiercely than fear, but fear still sat beside them, quiet and uninvited, and they all clung to one another with quiet desperation.
As the country had to adapt to the war, so did the Trapps, the Haverstones, and the Whiteheads.
The boxes left by Kurt and Brigitta in Kensington; the empty space in Nancy’s bed; James getting up and donning a uniform in front of Louisa instead of civilian clothes; Georg and Frank planning for the worst in their work for their companies: just images that said more to the family than the papers or the BBC broadcast could. Their happy life had ended. Privileged they were, still; but they now joined something bigger, side by side with the other Britons.
The pictures of the three heroes in uniform arrived soon. Friedrich in army khaki, Kurt in RAF grey-blue, and Brigitta in blue. All three smiling; all three impossibly young and beautiful; all three mentioning they were already in basic trainings, and that their education would most likely allow them to dive into specialised training with speed.
The city became darker, since the blackout didn’t spare a single light; petrol was being rationed; families started being scared for their children. However, they decided not to send the children away, as many other families did.
Cellars turned into air raid shelter—and here Georg’s expertise was essential. He checked the cellar in Kensington, then Liesl and Henry’s and Frankie and Eileen’s in Mayfair too, then Louisa and James’s small cellar in their Mile End terraced house. He made suggestions as to what they could do. “I am not a civil engineer. But I know what blasts can do. And how they can penetrate.”
Therefore, they first met to discuss the issue, then arranged for him to come and check everyone’s cellar’s improvements.
“Think of this house like a ship under attack. The large, unsupported walls facing open areas are like the broadside: most vulnerable to a direct hit or a nearby blast. We need to reinforce these critical areas first.
On a ship, we have bulkheads to contain damage. Inside the cellar, let's build something similar: a strong internal wall, even if it's made of tightly packed sandbags or heavy timber framing filled with rubble. This could help compartmentalize the space and protect those further inside from the initial blast and fragmentation if the outer walls fail.
The deck above us needs to withstand falling debris. Shore it up with the thickest timbers we can find, placed as close together as possible. Think of it as adding extra layers of plating to a vulnerable deck.
Every opening is a weakness. We need to seal those windows and any unnecessary doorways as tightly as we can. Brick them up solid if possible. If not, multiple layers of tightly packed sandbags are the next best thing. Think of sealing hatches before an attack.
Just like a ship has backup systems, we should have backup exits from the cellar if the main way is blocked. Even a reinforced window that can be broken out in an emergency.
Everything down here needs to be secured. Loose items will become dangerous projectiles in a blast. Lash down water containers, secure the first-aid kit, just like securing equipment on a rolling ship. Or submarine.
It's not just the direct impact. The concussive force of a blast can be devastating. We need to create as much distance and shielding as possible between ourselves and the outside walls.”
Maria, Liesl, and Nancy felt better after hearing him talk. He had seemed so broken after the declaration of war and the siblings’ volunteering, but now he felt like he had a purpose and, above all, the means to carve some hope for everyone. Frankie started making lists of what he and Georg could obtain via their companies. Henry started making lists of people who owed him a favour, or to whom he could promise a favour.
ARP Wardens, and sandbags started to be a common sight. They were just preparing for the worst, they said. And the worst involved even more: gas masks, those terrible gas masks that scared off children. Sarah, George and Mary Agatha always cried when they were forced to do drills, and hid in their parents’ chest. Thomas was slightly more amenable to them.
Nancy, as announced, agreed with Barts to come back on a flexible schedule, to be able to help in the war effort without neglecting Sarah. The nanny, and the family, would help her. And the hospital did need all the help they could find!
Liesl also told her mother that their charity work might soon need to be repurposed. “We will need to sew bandages and clothes, probably.”
Maria looked at the eldest Trapp child. “That brings back memories.”
“Wars tend to have similarities, I suppose.”
“We will continue our work for hospitals and medical care for the poor, of course. Then we will see what is asked of us.” Liesl’s Countess person really shined through in that moment. “Even standing by our husbands will be important, when they come home tired and distraught. Like Henry right now. When Lords or Parliament have rough days, he just collapses in my arms when he comes to bed, and holds me before falling asleep.”
“Georg will have to work with the Royal Navy. The irony of history: it has long been established that submarine war might block our food supplies, namely by sinking merchant ships delivering food to Britain. Last time, it was him on the submarines, and he was trying to lift the blockade even then.”
Liesl smiled. “Well, at least they have an expert.”
But that led the family to another topic. Growing their own vegetables.
The Haverstones and the Whiteheads obviously rearranged their estates in order to optimise their output, although it was all a tight balance: if animal feed or fertilisers should lack, it would all require a huge effort to find other solutions, and that might not ensure the same output as before. After all, even Henry’s ‘creative ways’ had limits at war.
Maria, Gretl, and Anna embraced the idea of growing what little they could in their garden; Nancy did the same but opting to add a few officinal herbs.
In the meantime, letters from the three heroes and even pictures continued arriving. Nancy clutched Friedrich’s tender words to her heart, and read them to little Sarah. Georg and Maria showed the letters for the family to everyone.
The photo that made everyone laugh a little, despite the sadness for their separation, was one picturing Kurt and Brigitta together, of course.
Both in their uniform, beautiful and smiling, embracing and holding a sign reading “BUGGER HITLER – And just to be sure… BUGGER MUSSOLINI”
Georg sighed. Tommy, Karo, and Florian obviously started to repeat those words, too—chanting them even— while his dear but rather undisciplined wife, Anna, and Gretl snickered in a rather unladylike manner.
“Georg, darling, try to see the humour in it. And also the proof that they are well, and in a good mood, and that they see each other often. The children know they mustn’t use certain words or tones.”
Liesl and Henry laughed a lot, and so did Martha (and, reportedly, Sir Winston and Mr Attlee, too—no intelligence about Chamberlain) and Nancy.
Except for a brief visit home accorded to Friedrich in mid-October, when he only saw his wife and daughter, the three volunteers finally got a short leave finally got a short leave in the first half of November, all together on a weekend, from Friday afternoon to Monday morning—Henry called in a few favours, and it wasn’t that problematic anyway. Nancy picked up Friedrich with Sarah, and kissed him shamelessly in the middle of the station, happy to have him home for three nights; Kurt and Brigitta pulled up in front of the Kensington house by themselves, marching in with their smiles and receiving everyone’s affection immediately.
A meeting with tea and dinner was organised at the Haverstones, of course, with the promise to leave poor Friedrich and Nancy go home early, or at least not too late.
Henry started the interrogation in the sitting room, with the children playing on the carpet.
“So, are they drilling into you the sense of duty and discipline that our nation requires?”
“They most certainly are,” answered Friedrich. “Anyway, I suppose we three are on a fast track to our specialised training, considering our backgrounds. It will not change much, I suppose: I never served, and there is so much to learn about military life. Kurt never flew, and even for Brigitta, the radar and RAF systems must be new.”
Kurt agreed. “As for me, there is also the pilot training, which is a long one. I am looking forward to the day I can fly on a Supermarine Spitfire. For now, I will be content with starting my first flights in a few weeks.”
Florian and Tommy got excited. “Flying! That must be incredible!” George asked, “Will you fly like the birdies, uncle?”
“A little quicker, Georgie.” He ruffled his dark brown hair, eliciting a broad smile from his sweet nephew.
Brigitta filled in. “For my part, I am already on my way to become operational, but there is still much to learn. The radar system and the Air Force workings, as Kurt said. I suppose Friedrich will soon have more leave, and more regularly, although very short. But it’s only right: he is a husband and a father. Kurt will be the one with fewer occasions to visit home. For me, it might get better soon.”
Gretl was curious. “But you and Kurt do see each other often, right?”
“There are some common trainings, and spaces in the Air Forces. And often, even though there is no time to come home, there is time to meet with other people in training, at a bar or pub. Some visit Bentley Priory when they can. Some of them to… look for a wife.” Brigitta caught herself in time: there was no need to discuss the lax approach to inter-sex relationships in the Armed Forces.
Maria understood. “So that’s where that picture came from!” She chuckled.
Georg sighed. “This brings back memories. Anyway, I have to commend you: it seems like they are making officers out of you in a matter of months. I had four years of school to become one.”
Friedrich stressed what was obvious to them. “We are all university graduates, Papa. You were a boy who had to finish school. There are volunteers with less privileged backgrounds, or simply younger, whose path will be very different. Maybe not as long as yours, but definitely more like it.”
Brigitta chortled. “There are volunteers who are eighteen, nineteen. Even seventeen-year-olds cheating on their age. Both men and women. They usually get sent home and told to come back in a few months with parental consent!”
Anna thought about it. “I think I would do the same. Staying at home waiting for you is boring. Right Flo? Patrick? Alice?”
Patrick and Alice were horrified. “Why would we go in the Army?”
Florian, obviously, was not. “Oh, yes! I would learn how to forge documents!”
Georg and Maria exchanged worried looks. “Thank you for warning us, Florian. We’ll keep an extra eye on you!” Everybody laughed.
Karoline reassured them. “I am staying with you and Tommy, Mama, Papa.” No one doubted her.
Then Anna elbowed Liesl, and shared one of her less predictable thoughts, at just eleven. “Anyway… Friedrich and Kurt, you are both dashing. James, too, but I am not sure Lou would appreciate me praising him.” She stuck her tongue out looking at her sister, and she replied in the same way in complicity. “But Kurt’s uniform… makes you even more dashing! With that colour, and that belt, and how it fits!”
Liesl and Louisa could not control the laughs, and soon every sibling and spouse joined in, even the little ones. And aunt Eileen, too, leaving a perplexed Frank gaping at her.
Brigitta had her own perspective to add. “Oh, I know, right? All the girls just go crazy for Kurt! I mean, women aged fifteen and older all have been swooning over both Friedrich and Kurt since they have grown up, but with that tight-fitting elegant service dress? You should be there to witness it. And they hate me because he hugs and kisses me when we meet!” She even slapped her own thigh in her hilarity. “They wished they were me, I tell you!”
Maria brushed her son’s back. “Kurt, wherever you go, nothing is boring. Just… don’t do anything stupid. Promise?”
“Oh, Mama, I do enjoy the admiration… but, as Brigitta says, she is the only woman I kiss. And you all, when I come home, of course!”
“And I am sure you will kiss your Spitfire, when you get one. His mates have told me he already went mad when he saw one!” Brigitta couldn’t stop laughing.
As everyone laughed, Karoline observed, “No one is talking about Friedrich!”
Nancy offered, “Anna did say he is dashing.”
“Yes, but he is doing interesting things too, I suppose?”
Friedrich smiled at his sister. “Karo, thank you. But, you know… military discipline, shooting, medical procedures in the Army… it’s not as glamorous as flying.”
James inquired, “Do you think you will be sent somewhere soon?”
“I have no idea. To be honest, the Army wants to manage its resources wisely. And this phase of the war seems rather sleepy. I guess Papa has more to do, on the naval front.”
Georg confirmed. “I do. I have much work, between planning supply routes for our shipping company and consulting for the Navy. It’s a rather strange war. I would have expected Germany to attack France, following their usual path through Belgium, but they are probably more interested in the east.”
Henry jested in his own insightful way. “Ah, attacking France. A German tradition. You know, Georg, I think we should worry: why is Germany now rejecting tradition?”
“I wish I had a joke for you to make light of it. I just don’t trust them.”
Henry stared down. “I know. I am sorry. Davies, my valet, usually cheers us up with his deadpanning. I was trying to do the same.”
Florian, his eyes bright and his leg bouncing, said, “Kurt, Brigitta, and Friedrich can cheer us up! They said they learned so many songs!”
Georg wasn’t convinced. “And just what kind of songs would they be?”
Friedrich reassured them. “We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried line, if the Siegfried line’s still there. You know, patriotic, mocking the Germans.”
And the three started singing it. Their voices were a little wobbly at first, then they grew louder, their still young faces earnest with the tune. The adults didn’t join in right away. Georg watched the children, a mix of concern and grudging amusement on his face, while Florian clapped his hands in time. But as the chorus came around, a few others in the room started to hum along. Soon, the air was filled with the light-hearted sound of a silly tune about a very serious war, and the younger ones seemed to feel much better. The parents were more careful, and especially Georg—his career and his years now decisive— was filled with the unspoken fear that the joke would soon be over, and the real war would begin.
For Christmas, the three got a leave again. Friedrich had a longer leave, reflecting his rank and his status as doctor, husband, and father; Brigitta and Kurt only a short one, but they managed to enjoy a blessed Christmas Eve and Day.
Kurt had a nice present for Thomas: a toy Spitfire. For Florian, he got a book with all the uniforms and the aircraft of the RAF.
“Trying to influence them, I suppose?” Friedrich mocked Kurt.
“You heard Anna. My uniform is much better than yours!” He winked at Anna, who giggled before hugging them both.
They sent a card to Hede, since travelling had become complicated with the war, and everyone signed it. They also included copies of all the best pictures of the family and of the three heroes. It would have to do, as with Robert, too. Nancy assured that love came through by mail as well, even though her eyes were moist as she said it.
And that remained the situation for months, a strange, uneasy calm, letters and visits on leave; until suddenly, the first true thunderclap of war erupted.
In early April 1940, Germany invaded Norway and Denmark. The quiet hum of the home front was replaced by a sharper, more anxious tension. Friedrich, deployed to a field hospital in Essex, was plunged into the grim reality of casualties, receiving the wounded from naval and air engagements in the frigid North Sea; his brief leaves became fewer, and often cancelled altogether. Brigitta, fully operational for months at Bentley Priory, wrote of her daily patterns becoming a relentless grind, tracking every fleeting contact over the churning Channel. Kurt, still deep in his advanced flight training, knew the pressure to get more combat hours was building to an unbearable pitch.
Then, barely a month later, Henry’s and Georg’s poorly hidden fears exploded into devastating reality. On 10th May, Germany marched with terrifying speed into Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg, unleashing the full might of their Blitzkrieg to attack France.
Friedrich only had time for one frantic phone call to Nancy.
“Darling, I love you, and I love Sarah, and I love our family,” he gasped, the words tumbling out. “They’re sending us to Belgium. Now. In a complete rush. I was lucky I found a phone, a few minutes to call you, tried both home and Barts.”
“Oh, darling… please, be safe!” Nancy’s voice was a thin, trembling thread. “I love you too, we love you too!”
“I’ll try my best. I have to go! The train’s leaving! Please, tell the others!”
Friedrich dropped the receiver, the line already dead, and rushed back to board the packed train, joining the massive, hurried movement of the entire British Expeditionary Force, thundering towards the former neutral countries, towards the inevitable storm.
Notes:
The chapter finishes on a powerful cliffhanger: Friedrich is sent to the front in Belgium. The stage is now set for one of the most desperate and heroic moments of the war. In the next chapter, we will see the entire family face the ultimate test, as the fate of a trapped army—and of the country—hangs in the balance.
Chapter 30: Bringing them all back home
Summary:
As the German Army tightens its grip on the British and French forces in Dunkirk, the future of the Allied war effort hangs by a thread. The only hope is a desperate evacuation—and with Winston Churchill now at the helm, the impossible may just become a reality.
Georg, being the man for the job, joins the flotilla of civilian boats sailing to rescue the trapped soldiers, including Friedrich. But in this total war, the entire von Trapp family finds themselves on the front line, from the ground to the skies, proving that everyone has a part to play in the fight for freedom.
Notes:
Key Terms & Acronyms:
• RMO: Regimental Medical Officer, a British Army doctor.
• BEF: British Expeditionary Force, the name of the British Army in France.
• Stuka: The Junkers Ju 87, a German dive-bomber with a terrifying reputation.
Content Warning:
• This chapter contains non-graphic depictions of war, including military attacks, wounded individuals, displaced civilians, and implied deaths. It also includes gallows humor.
Title: The title is a play on Bob Dylan’s 1965 album "Bringing It All Back Home" and the overarching goal of Operation Dynamo, the official name for the Dunkirk evacuation.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
24 May 1940, Belgium
Friedrich’s boots were caked in mud, his white RMO armband half-torn and bloodstained. His haversack was lighter than it had been yesterday: he’d already handed out all his spare bandages. His water bottle was nearly empty. His expression was grim but composed.
They were trying to go home. Not as a victorious army. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was not falling into the hands of the Jerries.
He’d swim across the Channel if he had to.
He paused as a jeep sputtered out a few feet off the road. The men cursed and scrambled to unload it. One of them, furious, raised his rifle and tried to fire a shot into the petrol tank—sabotaging it so the Germans couldn’t reuse it.
A de facto order. Don’t leave anything they could turn against us.
Friedrich offered to take a shot with his officer’s pistol. He cursed under his breath as he did it.
The soldiers thanked him.
“See you on the beach, Lieutenant!”
He resumed his march. After a while, a wounded Belgian teenager in civilian clothes stumbled onto the road—clearly not part of any unit, just following the retreat in desperation.
Friedrich thought, briefly, of Gretl, of Anna, and Florian. He thought of the poor civilians from neutral countries who found their village invaded, shelled. He thought of those who fled, and of those who weren’t quick or lucky enough to flee.
He broke rank again and went to the boy. His arm was broken; his mouth full of fear. Friedrich set it quickly with a strip of cloth, nodded once, and said in simple French: “You stay with us. We’re not leaving you here.” A very nice thought of him, of course. Whether that would be possible… that was another matter.
The column started to move again.
After a while, they met another column. Other civilians, fleeing, side by side or even mingling with them. Friedrich just hoped they would not attract other strafing attacks. He had already seen enough heartbreaking scenes: families forced to leave their lost loved ones on the road to get on with the surviving ones, especially.
As a reminder of those scenes, a child’s doll, soaked in mud, lay abandoned by the roadside.
Without thinking, he picked it up. Looked at it for a moment. His jaw tightened.
He thought of his Sarah. Of his sister Karoline, and his niece Mary Agatha. Of his cousin Alice. Of all those civilians.
He set the doll gently on the seat of the broken jeep, upright—like a sentinel left to watch the road.
Bloody Nazis.
What were Kurt and Brigitta thinking right now? Were they still safe?
He hoped to find out soon.
26 May 1940, Westminster Abbey
Henry squeezed Liesl’s hand tightly during the service, his voice low but fervent. “We have to believe. We must hold on to our faith in the Lord, as your parents do.”
Luckily, as Lord and Lady Aldbury, they had been admitted to the Church shortly after royalty, alongside the other peers. The queues, they heard, had been long—too long. The British were all praying: Anglicans, Catholics, Jews, Protestants of every stripe.
Not far from them, the Catholic part of the family, plus James, was praying at Westminster Cathedral. They had already heard, unofficially, from Henry and Martha, what the plans were preparing for.
Maria had done her best not to alarm the younger children, but they were no fools. They knew their father and sister Louisa were going to war. To save Friedrich—and many like him.
28 May 1940, Trapp house, Kensington
Maria ushered the uniformed man inside, her face pinched with tension. “Georg, Louisa—Royal Navy. Urgent. But they know we already know.”
The officer saluted, and Georg was momentarily surprised, but he returned the gesture solemnly, before remarking, “You know you shouldn’t be doing that.”
“I apologise, Captain von Trapp,” the officer said with a slight bow. “But your choice deserves this honour. I think, at least. Anyway, here’s your briefing.”
Georg scanned the briefing about the evacuation routes. His finger traced a path, then he glanced up at Louisa. “I choose route X, if you agree. I know my way through minefields and sandbanks, and you can help me navigate. But I can’t do much against air and surface attacks with our yacht from Dover. And I don’t want to spend any more time in the Channel than necessary.”
Louisa met his gaze and nodded. “I trust you, Papa.”
Maria sighed deeply, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I never thought I’d hear you say you’d willingly cross a minefield.”
“My love,” Georg said, a shadow passing over his face, “you know it’s either we bring them home, or we welcome the swastika on our shores soon. And Friedrich is still out there. Someone has to bring him back to Nancy, Sarah—and us.”
The Navy officer nodded in agreement. “If anyone can sail through those conditions and bring our boys back safely, it’s you, Captain von Trapp. We need our men home.”
“We all do,” Maria replied quietly. She shook the officer’s hand with both her hands before turning to her daughter and husband, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m going to check your food supplies. I suppose you’ll be leaving almost immediately.”
“We need to drive to Dover, prep the yacht—remove everything unnecessary, then sail at first light.”
The officer handed them their petrol coupons. “Godspeed, Captain, Dr von Trapp Bennett. Goodbye, Baroness.”
Georg and Louisa picked up their bags, already packed in the hall, and Maria returned with their supplies—thermos of coffee, bottles of water.
Then Georg noticed something strange. Louisa wasn’t just carrying her Red Cross bag and a few belongings—she was also carrying something angular and wooden.
“Louisa, why are you carrying a rifle? Is that Henry's present?”
“The real question is: why are you not carrying a weapon, any weapon, Father?”
Georg blinked, then gave an exasperated sigh. “Because our mission is to rescue soldiers, not to join a hunting party. Which brings me to my next question: do you think Stukas planes or German soldiers are akin to woodcocks or pheasants? Because that's all you are going to shoot with Henry's present.”
“Oh, there has been a misunderstanding: this is a Lee-Enfield from the last war!”
“You said it was Henry's present. He gave you a rifle for hunting!”
“It is Henry's present, just another one. You didn't specify!” Louisa accompanied her words with a shrug of her shoulders.
“Where—how—”
He stopped himself and raised a hand. “No. No, I don’t want to know. Nothing good ever comes of asking how Henry obtains his gifts.” He gave the weapon a nod. “Welcome aboard, Lee-Enfield, nice to have you on my side this time,” he concluded with a mock bow.
“Papa, is Henry's humour brushing off on you?”
“My dear daughter, this is military humour. I’m simply dusting it off. By the way, what does James say of all this?”
“He oiled the rifle, checked my medical equipment, then wished me good luck.” At Georg's surprised expression, she added: “Not everyone is prone to great displays of passion as you and Mama.”
Truthfully, James and Louisa had shared a passionate kiss—one she was not inclined to elaborate on. He had said, “Don’t die. We’ve got a new article draft to edit, and I have no patience for grammar.” Then he’d pulled her close for another, desperate kiss.
Well, no one needed to know that part.
Maria kissed both her daughter and her husband one last time, her heart heavy with love and fear. “May the Lord, your guardian angels, and poor Agathe from above watch over you both. May they protect you from this moment until you return to this threshold.”
The air in Dover smelled of salt, diesel, rope, and smoke. Dover Castle loomed above, its radio masts bristling. The sky was overcast, the sea grey-green and choppy. The distant droning of aircraft echoed across the water. Georg and Louisa paused for a breath, each silently wondering the same thing: Was Kurt up there, watching over them?
The harbour was tense and crowded. Some vessels were being confiscated, others handed back to their civilian skippers after a rapid briefing. Officers shouted above the din. The great evacuation had begun.
The appearance of a former enemy U-Boot ace—now a trusted Royal Navy consultant—had become a quiet beacon of hope. Captain von Trapp’s arrival was no surprise to command; his plan and route had already been telegraphed ahead. If anyone could sail the treacherous Route X without running aground or striking a mine, it was him, as the officer in London had said. And everyone knew it.
He moved with practiced ease—calm, sharp-eyed, authoritative. So did his daughter. Louisa checked her armband and medical kit for the umpteenth time, her expression focused, determined.
They stripped the yacht of non-essentials: silver cutlery, cushions—all tossed into a crate marked STAY BEHIND. Louisa insisted on keeping a battered kettle. Georg raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Tea or disinfection: both could save lives.
A young naval officer strode up and saluted.
“Captain von Trapp, sir—we’ve got two motorboats that can’t plot a course worth beans. Can they follow you across?”
“If they stay exactly behind and don’t try to be clever, yes. Same goes for everyone.”
The officer nodded, eyes on the Union Jack Georg was raising.
“All civilian vessels must fly colours. Make sure it’s visible—you’ll be taken for French or worse if you’re not flagged.”
Georg checked the fuel tanks himself, muttering about the poor quality of civilian fittings. Louisa stifled a giggle.
“We move at first light,” he said, tightening a rope. “Our route can only be sailed by day.”
From the far pier, a signal flare burst into the sky—another launch departing for Dunkirk. The flare lit the low clouds with a brief flash of orange.
Louisa turned to her father.
“We’re doing to Mama Maria and the others what you did to Mamá Agathe and us during the last war. But I have to say… I much prefer being with you this time than being the little girl waiting at the Erlhof.”
She kissed him on the cheek.
“I’m glad to have you with me too, my dear daughter.” He smiled, a rare softness in his expression. “I’ve been a lucky man. Two wonderful wives. Eleven wonderful children. Even if we never get back… I’ve lived a life worth living. But don’t tell your mother I said that—or she’ll kill me.”
Louisa kissed him again, grinning.
“Mama won’t kill you. She’ll do what I do to James when he makes grammar mistakes in his papers.”
She winked.
“Heavens, Louisa! I didn’t expect that from you.”
He shook his head, chuckling. “But then again… I’m glad your marriage is as happy as ours.”
“And I am glad we both think our life was worth living. Sailing is easier when you are travelling light, you always said.”
Georg nodded, a wistful expression on his face.
Louisa added, “Who knew that our holidays in Istria, or that last holiday in France not a year ago would have been practice for us for this day?”
Looking at the horizon, Georg agreed. “True. Who knew.”
Before dawn, Georg and Louisa boarded the yacht. The harbour was thick with smoke and tension. They said little—each absorbed in their tasks. Louisa adjusted her Red Cross armband. Georg studied his old naval compass—a relic from the last war, and now his lucky charm. He tucked it back into his coat. The sea was rougher than expected.
As they pulled out, the two motorboats followed close behind—eager but undisciplined. One veered off course, and Georg angrily signalled it back. They passed a burned trawler drifting sideways, mast broken like a snapped matchstick.
Louisa muttered, “Charming way to warn us to stay vigilant.”
They navigated into a minefield marked only by rough intelligence and memory. Louisa kept her eyes locked on the surface of the water. Georg, hands steady on the tiller, calculated, observed, muttered about sandbanks and tide lines—not just to think aloud, but to distract her from the cold, and the dread.
Overhead: the distant drone of aircraft.
Louisa looked up.
“You think it’s him?”
“Could be.”
They both knew she meant Kurt.
As they neared the French coast, fishing boats emerged from the haze—overloaded with shivering soldiers, some waving weakly, others too numb to react.
Maybe one of them was Friedrich.
The beach loomed ahead in smoke and chaos—columns rising, gunfire crackling and booming, the black outlines of wrecked ships and vehicles strewn across the shallows.
Georg squinted. U-boot warfare hadn’t prepared him for this. In the deep, war had been quiet, contained, almost surgical. This was noise and panic and exposed flesh.
Louisa, standing beside him, took it in without speaking. This—this—was how the wounds came. This was how the sepsis began, how the legs were lost, how the dying came in silent waves to her wards. For her, it was like finally witnessing the prelude she had only read or written about in case notes and hospital records.
They didn’t land. As arranged, they hovered just offshore. Many waded and even swam the last stretch to them, panicked and gasping, terrified by the Stukas that circled and dove like hawks. But there were also a few dinghies and small boats helping.
Louisa hauled a sodden boy aboard. His face reminded her of Florian, not Friedrich or Kurt. He bled from the scalp.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jack,” he stammered.
“Well, Jack,” she said, cleaning the wound, “you’ll see England again.”
Another soldier scrambled up but lost his footing, nearly capsizing the yacht. Georg’s voice rang out—clear, sharp, practiced. Commands snapped through the air like in 1917. The men obeyed. His authority was unquestioned.
Louisa’s presence helped just as much. She moved between them with calm, giving tea, gauging pulses, binding wounds. Her uniform and poise told the men: these people know what they’re doing. And that belief alone kept some of them upright.
The yacht filled. One of the motorboats was missing—likely hit. The other drifted close, damaged, taking on water. Georg threw a line and pulled it nearer, helping load more soldiers onto their already burdened deck.
The return was worse. The waves had risen. Enemy aircraft circled. A fighter dove past them, engine screaming. Louisa shielded her eyes and squinted at its markings.
“That might be a Spitfire,” she said.
Georg, eyes still on the horizon, replied dryly, “Then he’s covering his old man, as the English say.”
One soldier confirmed. “That’s a Spit, sir. Bloody nice sight.”
Louisa smiled faintly and ran her fingers across her Lee-Enfield.
“May they hit every Stuka they find.”
One soldier vomited over the side. Another sobbed quietly. Most just drank their tea, hunched under blankets, watching Georg and Louisa, asking quiet questions—or none at all.
Back in Dover, cheers went up as they docked.
Several soldiers, stiffly saluting, thanked them—some already knowing the family name.
“We hope you find your Lieutenant Friedrich von Trapp. And hear from your pilot son. And your plotter daughter. Thank you, Captain von Trapp. Thank you, Doctor von Trapp Bennett.”
Louisa blinked fast but said nothing. They were immediately waved toward triage.
Before stepping off, she turned. Georg still gripped the tiller. His hands were raw and blistered. She placed a hand on his shoulder.
“We’re going back?”
Georg stared at the now-empty boat. The ghosts of the ones they hadn’t saved still clung to the rails.
“Yes. Tomorrow. Same time. Once we’ve refuelled and rested. There are more sons, brothers, and husbands out there.”
Louisa nodded.
“Maybe Friedrich is already on his way. Or maybe… he’ll be rescued tomorrow.”
30 May 1940, Dunkirk
Friedrich had just loaded another stretcher on the ship. The deck was filled with them. He chose to see hope in that. Hope that they would all land in Dover still alive, and that they could treat them.
One of the naval officers gave the signal for the ship to leave the dock, and Friedrich went back to doing his job, namely trying to treat wounds to ensure they would all have a chance to survive. The ship crew would take care of the rest.
Irrigate. Dress. Pressure. Splint. If needed, stitch. Morphine where possible. Sulpha powder if lucky.
He worked silently, methodically, moving from man to man. A hand on a shoulder. A whispered word.
He wished he knew more prayers in English—something simple and warm. All he had was Latin and habit.
He didn’t pay attention to what was happening apart from what was his duty, the smoke and the voices all blending into background noises and colours: useless. He disconnected completely, and bent over the wounded.
That’s how he didn’t hear or notice the Stuka diving for the ship.
The blast of a bomb shot him almost against the railing, kicking away his cap and his medical kit. He didn’t hear a thing for a while: his ears rang like a bell tower. No shouting, no engines, just a high whine that wrapped around his skull. But he forced himself to stay vigilant, and he soon noticed the ship had been hit, and not just once.
He had to do something for the people on the stretchers, or they would go down with the ship.
He went back to where he was, a strange warm feeling on his left arm, and tried to make a few men stand, explaining the situation. He hoped he was talking clearly, because his hearing wasn’t clear yet.
Someone tapped him on his shoulder.
He turned to watch him. He would probably hear him better.
“LIEUTENANT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU HAVE A WIFE AND DAUGHTER! DIVE! DIIIIVE!” And the soldier pulled him away towards the railing.
Friedrich jumped.
The seawater stung terribly, and that was how he noticed he must have gotten some splinters in his left arm.
Swimming in uniform and boots was not the same as swimming with a suit, he noticed. What a stupid thing to think. Although… Boots, bloody boots. Damn boots. Bloody Nazis. Bloody war.
The soldier who had made him jump approached him again. “We have to go back home on one of those yachts. Less likely to be hit by a Stuka. Although I am sure they will try to sink the boats, too.”
They made it back to the beach. Friedrich’s wound burned like hell, and he now had to keep the bloody sand away from it, while looking for a yacht or small vessel that might take him to Dover.
Not so far away from them, the Trapps’ yacht was loading other troops. Georg, Louisa, and the queuing soldiers had witnessed the attack to the ship with terror and disgust together, and were now following the Stuka’s route. It was definitely coming back. For whom, they had no idea.
Georg remained cool, but could not avoid saying what was in his mind. “I can steer around mines, but I can’t outwit a Stuka. Especially not from the shore.”
Louisa embraced the Lee-Enfield. “Then if it comes, I won’t die crouching. I’ll try my luck with a shot.”
Some soldiers muttered agreement and raised their rifles. Georg said nothing. He understood. If death was coming, they’d rather meet it standing.
As for him, he definitely missed having deck guns and torpedo tubes in that moment, but it was a waste of time and energy to think about that. Maybe the Stuka had orders to sink ships only. He’d better continue loading the boat, and hope for the best. He could not do anything else.
Suddenly, another shadow ripped through the sky, plunging from the clouds with reckless abandon. The dive was steep, almost too steep, like the pilot had thrown himself into the void for the sheer thrill of it.
The Stuka never stood a chance. The Spitfire sliced through the air like a knife, screaming straight for the enemy with a ferocity that felt almost… personal.
He danced with danger, riding the very edge of control. The world spun as he whipped around in a loop so wild, so impossible, that for a heartbeat, everyone watching thought it was some kind of stunt. Then the Stuka exploded, its wing sheared off in a violent spray of fire and smoke.
The soldiers stared in stunned silence, the air heavy with disbelief. Then one of them broke it, ecstatic:
“It is a BLOODY SPIT! BLOODY BRILLIANT!”
Cheers exploded. Helmets flew. Men leapt onto yachts with a strength they didn’t know they had.
“Look at that loop! He’s a bloody maniac!”
“He just took out a Stuka head-on. He can bloody well fly sideways if he likes!”
Georg and Louisa exchanged a look. Relief, awe, and something like pride.
“Saved by a Spit,” Georg said dryly.
“That loop... that sheer madness...” Louisa’s voice trailed. “It has to be Kurt.”
On the beach, Friedrich felt the same thought crash into him like a wave. He blinked through sand and smoke—and smiled, despite the pain and the chaos.
On the Spit, Pilot Officer Kurt von Trapp, call sign Bull, couldn’t contain his grin.
“Down you go, you sodding Hun!”
His voice crackled through the radio, too loud, too happy. “First Jerry, first bloody kill! Chalk one up for Bull!”
He tried to avoid any of the German or Italian swears that still hovered in his muscle memory. Not today. Not here.
And just as quickly as the elation hit, a clipped voice cut through the Spitfire’s radio.
“Bull, you're running on fumes and your ammo count's in the red. Get your tail back to Manston. Pronto!” The command, sharp and final, was the only thing that could slice through Kurt's exhilaration. Reality, in the form of a demanding fuel gauge and dwindling bullets, brought him back to earth.
“Bloody typical,” he muttered, already banking away from the chaotic beach and setting course for home.
Dover, late afternoon, same day.
Friedrich sat on a bench behind a warehouse, his left arm bare, bloody and shaking as he held forceps in one hand. He had found another medic’s abandoned satchel near the harbour, and scavenged enough to clean the worst of the wound. Morphine had run out—again.
A corporal walked past, stopped, and stared at him.
“Shouldn’t you be inside the chapel? They’ve got stretchers in there. You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“’Von Trapp’. You’re German?”
Friedrich gave him a tired look. “No. Austrian.” He finished tying the bandage with his teeth. “And a Regimental Medical Officer, thank you.”
The corporal muttered something about continentals and moved on.
Someone handed him a chipped mug of tea without a word. Friedrich accepted it with a nod. Sugar, no milk. It tasted like war.
No one gave him orders. No one stopped him when he climbed onto the next train north. The platform officer pointed vaguely toward “Reading or London or wherever they still have beds,” and that was the end of the conversation.
The train stank of seawater, blood, and boot polish. Friedrich sat beside a man missing half his ear and closed his eyes.
He would go home, then, and try to report to some command from there.
Dover – Naval Processing Point, same evening
An officer in a rumpled uniform approached Georg and Louisa as they helped tie off a line from the yacht. The man squinted at Georg’s naval insignia, then nodded brusquely.
“Captain von Trapp, Dr von Trapp Bennett?”
“Yes,” Georg replied, standing straighter.
“You’ve done your bit. Admiralty thanks you. Orders are to report no further for now.”
Louisa raised an eyebrow. “We’re being sent home?”
“Correct. Two journeys already. Trains for London leave hourly. You’ll be briefed again later if needed. For now—rest. You’ve earned it.”
Georg gave a measured nod. “Very well. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
The officer moved on, clipboard in hand, already shouting at the next group of volunteers.
Louisa stared at the chaos around them—men with bandages and hollow eyes, Red Cross women hauling kettles, children carrying stretchers.
“Feels wrong just leaving,” she muttered.
Georg squeezed her shoulder gently. “We’ll be back if they call.”
“Should we sleep on the yacht? Or should we drive directly to London?”
“With the blackout, we’d end up in a ditch halfway. We sleep. We rest. We drive tomorrow. Ready to be smothered in affection by our family.” He kissed his daughter. “After so many years, I get to give you a goodnight kiss twice in a row.”
Louisa looked at him. “It was nice, you know. It felt almost like getting back some of the years we didn’t spend together after my expulsion from Graz.”
Georg’s eyebrow arched impossibly. “We just went to war and risked our life. Only you, Louisa, could have turned it in a father-daughter moment.”
“Exactly. Only myself.”
They hugged tenderly, then started preparing the yacht for the night, and for the return to civilian exploits.
Hampstead, that night
Friedrich didn’t want to alarm anyone. But he also didn’t want to die in the garden.
His legs were shaking—partly from the long journey, mostly from the fever that had crept in without asking. The bandage was damp. Too damp. He didn’t dare look at it again.
He leaned against the iron gate, pressing his forehead to the cool metal for a moment. The smell of Hampstead’s wet earth, of lilac and soot, made his chest ache. Home. Close.
Bloody blackout—he couldn’t see anything. He made for the door, hoping not to stumble.
He imagined Nancy reading, her legs curled under her, the fringe of Sarah’s blanket still trailing from her lap. Sarah herself would be asleep by now. Safe.
He knocked. Once. Then again. Then a third time, louder now.
His voice came out cracked, thin, too much like someone else’s.
“Nancy—Nancy, it’s Friedrich. I made it back.”
No answer. His knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself on the door.
Don’t faint. Not here. Not now.
He knocked again, this time with his fist, desperate and growing weaker. A shadow passed by the curtain. He swayed.
Was this really home? Had he made it? Or was this another trick of the fever?
The door opened fast—then froze.
Nancy stood barefoot in her robe, one hand on the doorknob. She stared at him as though afraid he might vanish if she blinked.
“Friedrich?” She sounded so uncertain, and so certain at the same time.
He gave a lopsided smile. “Not a ghost, I promise.”
Then he nearly fell into her arms.
“Oh, love—God, your arm—”
“It’s nothing,” he murmured, already leaning his weight into her. “I just… didn’t want to sleep in the garden.”
She laughed, too close to crying, gave him a kiss on his lips as he got hold of him, and pulled him inside. He sagged against the wall in the hallway, blinking through a blur of heat and fatigue.
Nancy kissed his temple, her hands already working to peel off his damp coat. “You’re burning up.”
“Minor wound,” he muttered.
“Minor wound, my—” She cut herself off, exhaling sharply. “Sit. I’ll get water. And Sarah’s awake. She must have felt that her Daddy is home, I swear!”
From upstairs came a soft, half-asleep whimper.
Tiny feet pattered down a moment later, unsure but determined.
Nancy caught her just before she could tumble from the last step. “Steady, my darling. Look.”
Sarah’s eyes found Friedrich, and for a beat she stared.
Then she squealed — “Daa!” — and rushed to him as fast as her little legs could manage.
He opened his arms and winced as she flung herself into them, babbling and clutching his coat.
He wrapped her close, pressing his face into her brown curls. “Hallo, Mäuschen. I missed you so much.”
Nancy knelt beside them, brushing his cheek. “We both did.”
Friedrich felt the fever rise, the ache pulse sharper—but Sarah’s warm weight against his chest and Nancy’s touch steadied him.
“I’m home,” he whispered. “Just… don’t let me fall over, my love.”
Nancy pulled back only when Friedrich’s head dropped slightly. His skin was far too warm, and the sweat on his brow was not from exertion.
“You’re burning. This isn’t just exhaustion.”
“I said it’s nothing—”
“Friedrich.” Her tone cut through him—not sharp, not angry. Just firm, and very, very tired. She undid the bandage carefully, her fingers deft but tense. The wound was red, swollen, the edges angry. A faint smell rose from it—sea and infection.
She pressed a hand gently under his arm. He hissed. “How deep?”
“Not that deep. But it smells off.” She met his gaze. “You're infected. Early, but it’s coming fast. You need proper care. No heroics. What happened?”
“Stuka bombed the ship I was on. Splinters, probably. Then I had to jump into the Channel to avoid drowning. Swam to shore. Hitched a ride to Dover. Scavenged some supplies. Cleaned it up a bit.”
“Splinters and seawater?” Her voice rose. Nancy yelling. That never happened. “You’ll go to Barts. If they admit you, so be it. If they patch you up and send you home, I’ll deal with the rest.”
He sagged again. “The police… I need to report for duty…”
“I’ll go.” Her voice softened again, but only just. “I’ll have your hospital papers. You will not be the only one brought in half-dead. They can come here or contact us later. For now, you need a doctor. And antibiotics. And sleep.”
He blinked. “Sarah comes too?”
Nancy kissed his cheek. “Darling, I am not leaving our daughter here while I take her half-dead father to hospital. Exceptional times. Let someone challenge me.”
She grabbed her coat, pulled one over Sarah, and took her bag. Then she bent to Friedrich and slipped his good arm over her shoulders.
“Come on. Wraith’s got just enough petrol. Let’s see if Barts still loves you.”
It was late at night when they got to Barts, where the personnel recognised their hero who had volunteered immediately. Dr von Trapp, his hair now short, but his tall figure still recognisable.
Friedrich lay shirtless on the gurney, teeth chattering despite the warmth. The antiseptic stung. Sarah sat curled on a bench beside the wall, coat still buttoned, clutching her toy rabbit. Nancy sat beside her, calm only on the surface.
Dr Miles, one of the senior consultants, made sport of him.
“We would have been happy with a postcard. There was no need to come in person.”
Friedrich attempted a smile.
Dr Miles then assessed the situation, with the help of Nancy—Nurse von Trapp.
“Ship bombed, splinter wound, soaked in sea muck, no antiseptic, and he's been walking on it for hours,” Nancy said quickly, guiding the orderly’s attention to Friedrich’s left arm. “Hit during the retreat. Today.”
Dr Miles didn’t bother with small talk this time. He snapped on gloves and went to work.
“Any tetanus jab in France?”
“No,” Nancy and Friedrich answered in unison.
Miles swore softly. “Wound’s fresh but filthy. Hot to the touch. Inflammatory streaking already tracking. You don’t get that unless your immune system’s waving the white flag.”
Friedrich tried to joke: “At least it’s not gangrene.”
“No, but if we don’t flush this out properly, it will be. He’s lucky it’s not his dominant arm. We’ll irrigate, debride, start sulpha, get a tetanus shot in him—then pray.”
Nancy didn’t let go of Friedrich’s good hand. “He didn’t wait, Dr Miles. He came straight home.”
Miles paused, glancing at her. “Then let’s make sure he doesn’t regret it.”
The lights were dimmed. Sarah slept curled up beside her father, one fist resting on his chest. His fever had broken slightly but was far from gone. He lay on his side, cradling her gently with his good arm.
Nancy returned from the nurses’ station with a cup of weak tea. She sat by the cot, just watching them.
“You were right,” Friedrich murmured. “It’s not nothing.”
“You scared me.” Her voice broke.
“I know.”
He tried to shift. The bandaged arm pulsed dully, but he didn’t flinch this time.
“You came through,” she said, brushing hair from his brow.
“Didn’t want to die in the garden,” he whispered.
“You almost died on the doorstep.”
He huffed a breath. “Dramatic entrances. Blame the Luftwaffe.”
She took his hand. “We’ll get through this.”
He looked over at Sarah. “With her as field nurse?”
Nancy smiled. “The fiercest.”
“Just promise me never to tell Louisa or James.”
“Why? They will publish a paper. ‘Fighting stupidity: the new frontier of defeating infections.’ Or something like that. They might even get you as third name.”
The morning came, and Friedrich woke to a weight on his chest—not the pain, for once, but Sarah, curled like a cat in her sleep. Her curls were tangled against his chin. Nancy had stayed herself and, therefore, let her stay too; the nurses had turned a blind eye. Exceptional times.
Then there were voices in the ward.
Nancy glanced up from the corner chair where she’d dozed with one shoe still on. A young man stepped in—uniformed, polite, clipboard in hand. Royal Military Police. The red cap band said as much.
“Lieutenant von Trapp?” he asked, voice low.
Friedrich shifted slightly under the blanket, wincing. “Yes. Present and not quite accounted for.”
The young man hesitated at the sight of the toddler. “Sir, I’ll keep it brief. We’re checking on personnel returned from the BEF. You weren’t on any list from Dover or Charing Cross, but your hospital filed a report. You’re marked as repatriated under duress.”
“I was told to find a bed by the platform officer,” Friedrich said, his voice rasping. “I found one near my wife and daughter. Is that… disqualifying?”
The officer gave a dry, tired smile. “Frankly, sir, we’re relieved to find anyone who made it home at all. It will be a long task., to track you all. But better this than having you in the Huns’ hands.”
Nancy stood, hand gently on Sarah’s back. “He is a MO. Marched from Belgium, bombed at sea. He didn’t just slip off for a lie-in.”
“Understood, ma’am.” The officer jotted something. “Wound sustained at Dunkirk?”
“Yes. Stuka attack on ship. Splinters. Infected.” Nancy’s voice was clipped. “We're lucky he still has the arm.”
The man nodded. “I’ll note that. We’ll need a written account when you’re able — day, vessel, movements. Command is gathering reports for the evacuation review.”
“Of course, just leave me the form —or some paper.”
“We’ll arrange it. In the meantime, your presence is logged. You’re not to be worried about absence without leave. It’s chaos, not desertion. The MO at Dover may have just missed your name in the shuffle.”
“Thank you,” Friedrich murmured.
The officer straightened. “You’re still considered active service, sir, even while recovering. But your daughter can stay.”
He tipped his head to Sarah, who stirred, blinked at him once, then burrowed deeper into Friedrich’s chest.
“Exception noted,” the officer said, and left with quiet steps.
Friedrich looked at his wife. “And what about you?”
“I work here, remember?” She finally allowed herself to kiss him lingering a little bit. Just an affectionate gesture on the lips, for now.
“Are you going to call my family? They surely need to know what happened.”
Nancy remembered he couldn’t have known. “Speaking of your family… your father and Louisa went to Dover with the family yacht you keep there. I was bound to call them anyway, to know whether they are back.”
“My father and Louisa were there?”
“Yes, darling. Your father is the man for the job, after all. And Louisa is a valuable assistant. Sailed with him already, a doctor, a rational person.”
Friedrich was still flabbergasted. “And Mama and James let them go?”
Nancy squeezed his hand. “Darling, you truly have no idea of what happened here, at home?”
He shook his head.
“We watched with horror as the Germans advanced in France, Belgium, Luxemburg, and Holland.” Nancy continued, her voice soft but filled with the lingering anxiety of those days. “The newsreels... the radio... it was all anyone talked about. We saw maps in the papers, those terrible arrows pushing further and further towards the coast. You and all those other brave men... we could see you were being squeezed, surrounded. There was this awful feeling of helplessness, of watching a tragedy unfold across the Channel. I thought of you. What would the Germans do if they got you? Hang you as a traitor?”
She paused, her gaze steady on Friedrich's face. “Then, things started to shift. There was a change in the tone of the news. Churchill's speeches became… urgent. He spoke of a 'colossal military disaster,' but also of hope, of resolve. And then came the King's message, that National Day of Prayer. Everyone was in the churches, Friedrich, praying for a miracle, praying for you all to be saved.”
Nancy's voice grew slightly stronger as she recalled the turning point. “And then... then we started hearing about the little ships. At first, it was just whispers, almost unbelievable. Fishing boats, pleasure yachts, all sorts of small craft were being asked for, requisitioned, to go to Dunkirk. It was like the whole country held its breath. Your father, with his impressive naval background and that yacht sitting in Dover... it made a terrible kind of sense when I heard he’d go. They are still going, you know. Rescuing more. Rescuing even the French, when possible.”
She squeezed his hand again. “Georg felt he could make a difference. And the Navy asked it of him anyway. They knew he would say yes. And Louisa... well, Louisa has always had a fierce heart and a need to help. Being a doctor, she wouldn't have stayed behind when so many needed help. It is a desperate time, Friedrich, and ordinary people are doing extraordinary things. They went because they couldn't bear the thought of leaving you all stranded.”
Friedrich stared into nothing for a while. He hadn’t thought of the risk he was exposed to, should he get caught by the Germans. He hadn’t thought of how scared the civilians must have been when it seemed the entire Army would be obliterated, and the country would stand undefended in front of Nazi Germany.
“We all had no chance. As you see, even now, they are letting me stay here with Sarah. I am helping, too, even though I would have been on duty only later —they are bringing in more, you know— and they are helping me check on Sarah. And they’ll let me go and call your mother, too.”
“Please, go. I guess Mama will be grateful to know that at least I am all right.”
“We will have to redefine the meaning of ‘all right’, Dr Very Proper.” And with a last peck on his lips, she went.
31 May 1940, Trapp house, Kensington
“Oh… thank you, Nancy… Gott sei Dank, Gott sei Dank!” Maria's voice cracked as the receiver slipped slightly in her trembling hand.
Everyone had stayed home—school, university, everything suspended — as if the house itself were holding its breath. So, they all heard her cry of joy.
Gretl looked sharply at Anna, who turned to Florian, who didn’t even need to glance at Karoline and Thomas; they were already flying down the corridor. The others followed, feet thudding against the parquet, hearts racing.
“Mama… Mama… what is it? Who is it?”
Maria was still leaning over the phone, the other hand pressed tightly to her chest, eyes brimming with tears. “Friedrich! He’s home! He made it! He came in the night—he’s at Barts—Nancy and Sarah are with him!”
The children surged around her, hugging her as if they could hold the world together with their arms. She clung back just as hard.
Anna, breathless, tried to anchor them. “Now we just need to hear from Papa and Louisa. They’ll be all right. They have to be.”
Florian’s voice was quieter, more hesitant. “And Kurt and Brigitta. They could be anywhere.”
Maria straightened a little, dabbing at her eyes. “They’re Air Force—it might take time. We must wait patiently. No news is not bad news.”
“We should call Liesl!” Gretl blurted. “James is probably at the hospital, but she must be hone and she has to know.”
They phoned immediately. Liesl, alone with the little ones and weary with worry, gasped and then echoed her mother, “Gott sei Dank… Gott sei Dank…” again and again. Even George repeated the words, , and Mary Agatha parroted them with her lisp, not understanding completely, but sensing it mattered.
“Let’s have milk,” Karoline suggested, “with cocoa powder. And biscuits. We still have some. It’ll feel like a feast.”
Maria wiped her eyes again and smiled, touched by the gesture. “Yes. Let’s celebrate what we can.”
As they sipped their rationed cocoa, Gretl read aloud from the papers, voice shaking with hope: “They say tens of thousands are home already! Some say more…”
“Papa will come home, too. He knows what he’s doing, right, Mama?” Anna’s voice, older than her years, clung to belief.
“He surely does, sweetheart,” Maria replied — but in her heart, she added, if the sea and fire let him through.
Then—a noise outside.
An engine.
A car door.
Everyone froze. Maria’s cup nearly slipped from her hand.
Then the door opened.
Maria ran this time. No dignity, no decorum—just instinct. She flung herself at Georg as the children surged behind her, engulfing Louisa. Maria ran this time. She clutched him as if he might vanish again.
“My love, you’re safe!” she cried into his coat, her fingers digging into his back. “You’re here… you’re really here.” She covered his entire face in kisses.
He wrapped his arms around her with the strength of someone who had seen the edge and stepped back. “We are home. We did it. We are home.”
The children surrounded them, but Louisa was swept into a separate embrace—Karoline clinging to her waist, Thomas around her legs, Florian half-laughing, half-crying.
Maria turned, arms already open. “Louisa… my darling! You’re safe! Danke, danke…”
She cupped her daughter’s face, kissed her forehead, and just held her for a second—a mother grasping something infinitely precious and fragile. “I didn’t dare hope. Not so soon.”
Louisa managed a watery smile. “We’re here. We’re all here now… well, almost.”
“No almost. Friedrich is home, Friedrich is home! It’s a miracle!”
Something in Georg’s face shifted—not just relief, but release. His shoulders sagged, the officer’s tension melting. “Then he made it. Our boy made it.” For one breathless, tearful moment, the house was filled with light—the weight of dread lifting, as Maria reported all that Nancy had said. But not for long.
“He’s at Barts?” Louisa asked.
Maria nodded. “Nancy said more are incoming, that she’s helping. That they want us to come—and maybe bring Sarah home.”
Louisa pressed her lips into a thin line. “Then he’s not fine. He’s a doctor. Nancy’s a nurse. If they kept him in… that means something.”
Georg touched her arm. “You think it’s serious?”
“Not necessarily. But not nothing. He’s not just tired.”
The room sobered. Joy still pulsed—but now it beat beside fear.
Louisa gently but firmly redirected them. “Go. Tell him I’m safe, and going on duty. James and I will visit later—we’re family, and we’re doctors. They won’t stop us.”
As the family gathered their coats and scarves, the cocoa sat forgotten, half-drunk, on the sideboard. The joy had been real — but now it had to walk alongside the truth.
They picked up Liesl, who left the children with the nanny. George did protest at knowing that Thomas was going, and it was hard for them to explain that Tommy was next of kin, not to mention a year older. They all promised they would all meet soon as a family after Friedrich was dismissed.
The signs of the evacuation were visible. Crowded corridors and wards, personnel running everywhere, triaging and managing where possible.
They were all admitted to visit him because Friedrich and Nancy were “two of them”, and because the sooner little Sarah went home, the better. “Just please try not to stay too long, and don’t be too loud.”
Nancy was immediately summoned to guide them. She kissed them all quickly, as to avoid being either too cold and distant or too unprofessional. “Chaos is good. It means we are filling up the wards. It means they are coming home. And Sarah is being the sweetest girl ever. I am sure it’s doing Friedrich a lot of good.”
They saw him, visibly weakened, shirtless, his bandaged left arm explaining why he was there. He was trying to write something leaning on a bed table, as Sarah was cuddling against him with her toy and looking at the people coming and going. The girl recognised the familiar faces immediately, and alerted him with her “Ma… Pa… Maaa!”
“Sarah, look who is here!” His voice caught slightly before he added, “Oh, I have missed you all!” His tired smile made them worry, and Georg instinctively moved a step closer, looking at the bandage.
But Nancy did not seem to be excessively worried. “Here is our hero. A Stuka bombed the ship he was treating the wounded on. Splinters in his arm. He dove in the water, swam ashore, then came home with a civilian vessel, and tried to treat himself before hopping on a train to London.”
Georg thought the scene was rather familiar, but he let kisses and hugs come first, himself included.
“Oh, Friedrich! We were all so worried!” “Oh, Friedrich, we love you so much!” were the most frequent words spoken at first. Everyone expressed in words and action how relieved they were, and Maria picked up a giggling Sarah.
But Friedrich was relieved, too. “Nancy told me you and Louisa came to our rescue, Papa.”
“Yesterday and the day before that.”
“It was madness, Papa. You came to a war zone.”
“You know I could do it. You know I could pull it off. We are back, safe and sound. By the way, Louisa says she will come with James later. But… speaking of your wound… were you wounded yesterday? Attacked by the Stuka that then returned but was hit by a mad Spitfire diving steep and making a loop?”
Friedrich was surprised. “Yes… you were there?” Everyone’s eyes went wide.
“Louisa and the others were convinced the Stuka would bomb us next. We were near you, then. We saw your ship bombed as we were loading.”
“We would have never found each other. It was chaos. But…” and his eyes had a glint they didn’t have before “what did you think of that Spit?”
“Steep dive, speed, and a loop? Louisa and I thought it was very… Kurt.”
Friedrich smiled again. “I hope we will learn soon whether it was him.”
Little Sarah was now reaching for her Opa Georg, who picked her up gladly, burying his face briefly in her curls. For a second, he just held her tight, saying nothing. She repeated “Kurt.”
“Yes. Kurt is your mad uncle, who might have saved us.” One could hear tears in Georg’s voice.
Everyone started commenting all at once. “Kurt!” “Kurt is a hero!” “They were all attacked by a Stuka!” Only Maria’s opinion was heard clearly. “So, it was not all as safe as you said it would!”
Georg knew then he would get a homily at home. Well, it was all worth it.
Friedrich and Nancy exchanged a look. “Could you bring Sarah. home? You can call the nanny, see if she can come.” Nancy added, “I am not sure if I can keep to my agreed schedule, at least not for a couple of days. I am needed here. We might need your help, Maria, Liesl.”
“Of course,” they both agreed.
Georg wanted to be sure. “What about you, Friedrich? What did they say?”
“Observation, tetanus. Sulpha, against the infection. But I should be good to go in a few days. I will be on medical leave and then on convalescence duties for a while, I suppose. They’ll need the bed, I fear.”
Georg looked at him as if to scold him. “Don’t do anything rush or stupid. Let them treat you. Now they can do much more for you than during the last war.” As he talked, Sarah alternated between kissing her grandfather and doing something like pulling faces at her father.
Maria added, “Nancy and this little angel here count on you.”
All the children stopped in their tracks. “Mama, it must be the first time you have referred to a child with the surname ‘Trapp’ as ‘angel’. Not even Tommy ever earned that honour.” observed Gretl, with the Trapp brand sarcasm.
Friedrich completed the thought. “And I am rather sure you will regret doing so. She is mine and Nancy’s, after all.”
Everyone laughed.
As promised, Louisa and James arrived in the evening, eliciting a lot of curiosity, with James in his RAMC uniform, Louisa on his arm like a lady, and both being armed with paper, pencils, and pens, not to mention followed by the rumours about Dr von Trapp and his peculiar —and heroic— family.
“Friedrich, we are very grateful for your commitment to science. But it wasn’t necessary to risk gangrene or tetanus just for us to publish.” James’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, though.
Louisa simply walked to him and kissed him, trying to hug him without hurting him, then pressed her forehead to his, careful not to lean on him. “You didn’t let them treat you at Dover? Oh, if only we had found you…”
“According to Papa, we weren’t so far away. You have witnessed the bombing that wounded me, then the mad Spitfire hitting the Stuka. We agree it must have been Kurt.”
Louisa smiled a sad smile. Dangerous business, flying a fighter.
“So, tell us everything. We will keep track of your progression, and see if there are areas of improvement in treating these cases.”
“Nancy said I could get third name,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Of course. We can also help you with your report. I don’t think writing is easy if you cannot keep the paper still.”
They worked a little bit together, analysing the incident and brainstorming new approaches, until there was a commotion. They all stopped what they were doing to see what was the reason for it.
Henry and Martha appeared, their faces bearing the signs of those exhausting days between government and Parliament. Behind them, a few other people, two of which were unmistakeably Sir Winston Churchill and Clement Attlee. Friedrich, Louisa and James were flabbergasted! The others must have been bodyguards, they assumed.
Henry grinned as if he had just organised one of his usual stunts. “I thought, since we had to visit you, we might as well bring company.”
Martha added, “All colours represented. See?” She kissed Friedrich, and Henry followed.
Sir Winston was surprised, too, by seeing Lord Aldbury kiss his brother-in-law, and yet he said nothing on that. He addressed the main issue. “We wanted to see for ourselves how our boys are faring. Lord Aldbury and Miss von Trapp said they were coming to visit you, and that we were welcome.”
Louisa, not one to be intimidated easily, intervened. “Sir, you chose the perfect moment. We are helping my brother compiling his report, as well as starting our new study on treating wounds in emergencies.”
Henry cut in. “I apologise… this is yet another of my sisters-in-law, Dr Louisa von Trapp Bennett, and her RAMC husband, Dr James Bennett. The scientists of the family.”
Mr Attlee was quietly fascinated.
“A scientific family in uniform. RAF, WAAF, RAMC... and then the father and the doctor among the heroes of Dunkirk. A wounded RMO brother at the centre of it all. And of course, Lord Aldbury — and our heroic secretary and translator, Miss von Trapp. Britain thanks you.”
Churchill, who had been surveying the room in silence, finally lit his cigar.
“Well then. Seems you’ve all earned a bit of peace—and perhaps a drink, when this madness is over.”
He turned to Friedrich. “Doctor von Trapp, rest well. Our country needs men who dive into the Channel and then finish their paperwork.”
Then to Henry and Martha, with a nod. “Let’s not keep the hospital from its duty.”
Attlee added, almost gently, “Carry on. We’ll need more of your kind before it’s over.”
And with that, the statesmen left—leaving behind only the echo of their praise, and the faint sting of Churchill’s cigar smoke.
Friedrich was rather lucky. In the end, he was only hospitalised for eight days, then sent home to recover, Nancy back on her flexible schedule by that time, and so happy to have her beloved husband with her after so many months.
He still needed to recover. A fellow from the RAMC even came to check whether he was suffering psychologically, but, as Friedrich said, “I knew these buggers would have caused trouble in 1933 already, as I was first confronted with all kinds of fascist banners. I didn’t need a Stuka attack to know it.”
To that, the RAMC doctor replied deadpanning, “Now you’ll tell me you only need some tea to recover, I suppose.”
“Well, tea and Sulpha. Close enough.”
“So, you’ll have a long way. You’ll most likely spend some time doing paperwork and reporting regularly, as you get back your strength. Then, since you were a doctor at Barts… there might be the possibility for you to serve by working there, if the hospital is interested in keeping you. We are preparing for a very different war now; our army is regrouping, and we might be defending our shores now. More in the specific: you will be on convalescent leave for a while, until you recover. Your own profession as well as your wife’s are a boon in this case. We will monitor your progress, but between the infection and the wound, you will be unfit for service for a while. We’ll also see how your arm recovers, if you need some physical therapy or anything else, although it seems like bone, muscle, and nerves were not compromised. We’ll ask you to do some administrative work in Home Establishment, then we’ll contact you when the time comes. For Barts, or for anything else.”
With that cryptic sentence, the doctor saluted, then gallantly greeted Nancy, and left him alone with his wife. Sarah was in the garden with his mother, father, and younger siblings.
Nancy looked at him—really looked at him—as though her heart couldn’t quite decide whether to burst with joy or crack in two. Relief shone plainly in her eyes, but beneath it simmered something else: something deeper, older, and recently starved. It was the kind of hunger she’d taught herself to temper— not out of modesty, but necessity. Her gaze lingered on the hollow of his throat, the still-fresh bandage, the faint pallor that clung to him.
Desire flickered there, yes—but shaped by tenderness, not urgency.
She smiled, but it was not the easy grin he knew so well; it was softer, almost reverent, with corners held back by discipline. Her hand reached out before she could stop it, brushing his cheek. Then, without a word, she sat beside him on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, silence wrapped around them like gauze—fragile, healing.
Then Nancy leaned in, slowly, deliberately, and kissed him. Not the brisk, careful kisses of the past few days. This was different. Deep, unhurried, and rich with promise. When she pulled back, her forehead lingered against his.
Friedrich smiled. “Soon, I hope?”
“Soon, but not too soon. Your recovery is essential.”
“I suppose this is also why you never kissed me properly these days…”
Nancy nodded, and in doing so her lovely freckled nose rubbed his. He loved so much when she did that. “Of course. I didn’t trust myself: you know how I am with you. Especially after seeing you shirtless for days in hospital. And… you know… having you react to me while your body was fighting an infection… not good.”
“Ah, the trouble of being romantic and in love, but also a doctor and a nurse. I am rather sure lawyers, for one, wouldn’t have thought so much about it,” Friedrich said in jest.
She kissed him again on his lips. “Ah, Dr Very Proper, I missed you so much. And so did the others. We got calls: Brigitta and Kurt are fine, and will be coming on leave for a nice dinner to celebrate you and them in about a week or two or so, when you should be feeling better.”
Friedrich returned her kisses, and he noticed their self-control was slipping. “Just how long do I need to wait?”
“Well, you’ll need to feel no pain even when I am straddling you, and you’ll need to be strong. Very strong.”
“Then I suppose we should stop.” He gathered her with his good arm and clutched to him. “Anyway, forget proper when I feel better.”
“You are my handsome Austrian knight; you are always proper, deep down, even when you think you are not.”
Anna’s voice shook them. “Aww, you are so romantic!”
“ANNA! Shouldn’t you announce yourself?”
“Ach, I heard you anyway from the corridor. I mean, I don’t wish on my future husband to risk his life at war, but you are so romantic, really! All three of you married siblings! I hope I can find a love like this!”
Friedrich and Nancy shook their heads.
A week later, after careful monitoring, much gentle play with Sarah, and long hours filled with conversation and quiet affection, not to mention many visits from the family, the couple’s self-control had finally slipped—or rather, flown cheerfully out the window. With a little creativity and a great deal of love, they had found their way back to each other.
Afterwards, Nancy lay nestled against him, trailing her fingers idly along the line of his ribs.
“This,” she murmured with a wry smile, “was an excellent test run for the family dinner at Liesl and Henry’s. If you survived that, you’re definitely fit to face your siblings.”
Friedrich chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Let’s not forget the real training ground: keeping my wound safe from our affectionate, acrobatic one-year-old.”
Nancy grinned. “True. If you can handle Sarah trying to use you as a climbing frame and still keep your bandages intact, dinner should be a breeze.”
He looked at her then—tousled, flushed, content—and thought, If this is what convalescence looks like, I’ll take it.
It was another week until they could finally organise the extended family dinner with Brigitta and Kurt at the Haverstones townhouse. Their Wraith was the second car to park by the pavement in Mayfair, telling them only Georg, Maria and the younger ones had arrived.
The Whiteheads were there too, having arrived on foot. They all hugged him, and Patrick gave him a small Union Flag he and Alice had made.
“We have one for Kurt and Gitti too, of course!”
Martha, Louisa and James arrived, too, all together. Only the two heroes weren’t here, and for a while, everybody got worried.
Gretl was the most nervous. She kept glancing at the clock, then out the window. “Maybe something happened and they had to cancel their leave! What if the Jerries are invading and we’re just… sitting here?” Her voice was higher than usual, tight with something more than worry. Anna nodded seriously, and even Florian tilted his head, puzzled.
Georg’s eyebrows lifted, his expression shifting to concern as he bounced Karoline on his knee and kept Maria, with Thomas on her own knee, close on the sofa. “Sweethearts, why all this anxiety? I’m quite sure we’d have heard sirens—or something. And Martha is here: it’s a good sign if Sir Winston let her come.”
Liesl decided it was time to serve some sherry and gin & tonics to distract everyone. She even had some lemonade for the children, and she secretly gave Anna some watered-down sherry.
Finally, the Aston Martin parked, and everyone was anxious to see how the two would enter the room, because they knew they would not just announce themselves ordinarily.
Well, they entered together, with Kurt announcing loudly, “I hear this is where the Dunkirk heroes’ gathering takes place. I hope we are on time!” and everyone rushed to them, kissing them in affection and relief.
But Kurt had a specific target for his biggest hug.
“Friedrich! My brother!” he shouted, his voice already thick with emotion. “I’m sorry I didn’t get the bloody Stuka in time to keep you from getting hit—but I did make him pay for it!”
He reached him in two strides, then threw his arms around Friedrich with the unrestrained force of love and guilt and overwhelming relief. He clapped his brother’s back—not just once, but firmly, rhythmically, as though trying to pat the war away from his bones. Friedrich pulled him in without hesitation, pressing his face into his brother’s shoulder, his good arm wrapped tightly around Kurt’s back. For a brief moment, they simply held on.
No words. No pretence. Just the knowledge that they were still alive, both of them, and still themselves.
Friedrich exhaled slowly, eyes closing. “It’s good to see you, little brother,” he murmured — not for the first time, but with the weight of a near miss behind it.
The room had gone quiet. Maria pressed a hand to her mouth and wept, moved by the simple, unsentimental tenderness. In a world that punished men for softness, those two had always ignored the rules. She felt proud to have helped them be such sweet boys with her love, education and example, and she also thanked Agathe who had been an affectionate mother just as she was.
Louisa, who was trying very hard not to look as moved as her mother, stated the obvious. “So… it was you! We knew it, it had to be you!”
James brushed her back and teased her. “You know you’ll still be Dr von Trapp Bennett if you are moved by the scene, right?”
She grabbed Brigitta in the meantime. “Oh, sister! It’s so good to see you!”
“We are sorry, but the importance of the Air Force has been slowly increasing. It was impossible to come for a visit earlier.”
When they had all sat down for dinner—all together, nanny included to help with the children—the communication became less chaotic, and everyone told his or her own tale of the evacuation.
Georg and Louisa told of their two journey with the same yacht they had sailed to France to holiday with Hede, and everyone was relieved that nothing had happened to them, since they had gone where only soldiers, sailors, and aviators went and faced guns, bombs, and strafing by enemy fighters. Louisa was still convinced the Stuka wanted to hit their yacht next, rather large enough to be military relevant. Friedrich re-told of his focus on his patients on the ship deck that made him be less guarded and completely unaware, which led to his wound.
Georg looked at him. “I'm glad you'll be in England for a while. If you're ever sent back, remember: at war, always keep watch, or have someone do it for you. If you sleep, your mate keeps watch. It's constant. I'm sure Brigitta can tell you the same, since now it's her job.”
Kurt was next, since all the children wanted to hear the tale. “Brigitta and I have a score to settle with the Jerries, or to be more precise, the Nazis. I was overjoyed when I heard I was finally operative for Operation Dynamo! After all, I have been training for months.
Most of us flew over the channel. Lots of Hurricanes, some of us Spitfires. We watched over you and over the country. We also had to fly back often: fuel and munitions are limited.
Anyway, that day we received orders that the Stuka attacks were becoming not only a concrete but also a moral threat, so we dared come nearer to at least chase a few of them off you.
We intercepted the Stuka. I was too late to save the ship, but I was on him. Or better: I wanted to be on him. I dived down like mad. I drew my trajectory in my mind, when and where to shoot, how not to get shot. It ended in a loop. It’s difficult to explain, but I knew what I was doing. I got him, so I was right.”
A huge “YAY!” cheered him, and even Maria, who reflected on what it meant to “get” someone flying, smiled at her son. The Stuka had killed many people. Friedrich was still feeling bad for all the people who had been unconscious or unable to move and who had gone down with the ship, and he was right.
“However,” continued Kurt, “I had to head back to Manston, to my base, immediately. Reaching the beach, then making a loop meant I was seriously running low on fuel. And on munitions, since I got my first ki… my first hit.” Kurt tried to avoid saying ‘kill’ thinking of his mother and of all the children. “So, now I have my chance to become a better ace than you, Papa.”
Georg smiled at him, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Remember that coming home is more important, son.”
“Well, you did both.”
“But coming home to you was the most important of the two. You were slightly older than Mary Agatha, and Brigitta, you were her age. But Liesl, Friedrich, and Louisa can tell you that they only wished for me to come home. And Agathe too, of course.”
Everyone nodded, although Louisa and James seemed more sceptical than the others. Their job had made them aware of the odds aviators had in Norway, and it didn’t look good.
Finally, it was Brigitta’s turn. Then, silence fell as everyone turned to Brigitta. Her uniform was still crisp, but there was a subtle weariness in her eyes that even her usual spirited smile couldn't quite mask.
“From my side of it,” Brigitta began, her voice a little softer than usual, “it was… a blur of dots on a table. Counters and markers. Days and nights. I think I lived on stale tea and adrenaline for a week straight. We were watching every single movement over the Channel, every German squadron, every bomber, every solitary fighter. The sheer volume of traffic, Allied and Axis, was unlike anything we’d trained for.”
She took a sip of water. “We were all sleeping in shifts, often just on stretchers or camp beds in the corridors of the Ops Room, right next to the plotting table. If we were lucky, we got an hour or two. You’d wake up to the sound of controllers shouting coordinates, and the smell of cigarettes and hot tea, and you’d just dive back in.”
“Every time I had to remove a British marker, it was a defeat. And then seeing the convoys of little civilian boats, so many of them, heading into that mess… Knowing what was coming for them, and just being able to plot it, to warn the fighters… It felt like we were charting a storm, but couldn’t stop it.”
She paused, looking around at the concerned faces. “We were all praying they’d make it. Every single dot that vanished, every squadron that didn’t report back… it was personal, even if it was just a symbol on a map. I still see those movements when I close my eyes.” She managed a small, weary smile. “But then, seeing the numbers steadily rising on the ‘returned troops’ tally, seeing some of our own planes make it back, limping home… that was the only thing that kept us going.”
Then she brightened up. “I saw the scramble from Manston, I put the markers down. No one would ever know who flew, but... I had a feeling. Oh, and you had to scramble back, of course. Kurt, you and your loops! News travel, and soon I knew it all: from the others, from the family.”
Kurt put down his fork. “They told us in the debriefing that we might soon have to sleep on our planes or under the wing too. We are not sure what is coming, but most of us, even Churchill, suspect the Jerries might try to invade. Only we and the Navy stand between you and them. And, Papa will probably confirm, we lost many ships, and many others are damaged.”
Georg nodded. “Six destroyers sank. This one alone is a serious blow. They are essential for anti-submarine war. Many other ships sank or unserviceable. And, of course, most of France directly occupied. I hope Hede is OK, or maybe making her way to us here. Oh, and Italy joined the war.”
Brigitta noticed that the mood, that had been cheerful because of the troops saved and of the heroism of the family, had worsened. “I… we are sorry. We don’t want you to worry excessively. But we are not sure the Germans will be satisfied to have us off the Continent.”
Henry, who had been talking to Churchill with Martha, agreed. “They will at least try to convince us not to set foot on the Continent ever again. I told you, when it all began, that we would soon have to do our part. It has begun with the digging and growing campaign, with the little ships. It will probably continue.”
Florian and Anna exchanged looks, and then Florian spoke. “We are getting a weapon, too, if they arrive.”
Maria rolled her eyes. “Oh, Lord in Heaven, please help us! Why would you even be thinking of such a thing?”
Patrick, who had never shared Florian’s enthusiasm for war, had changed his mind, faced with a possible threat. “Aunt Maria, if they invade, we will have to do something!”
Liesl, as the hostess, was in difficulty. Being a hostess, a good sister, and a good mother conflicted with her duty as Henry’s wife and as the Countess of Aldbury. So, she tried her best. “I think we should all be grateful that we got most of our Army back, that our siblings are here with us, and that we have a nice family dinner for tonight. Then we will dance, sing, and play. What tomorrow brings, we surely don’t know, but we will face it when tomorrow comes.”
Gretl, of all people, stood up with a glass of wine. “Cheers to that! Especially because I signed up for the WRNS. I will be joining in a few days. This is my last evening with the entire family.”
The sound of Georg’s fork clattering onto the porcelain made everyone jump. Maria’s followed a moment later, slower but no softer. The air was gone from the room. Everyone waited to see who would explode first.
It was Georg, of course.
“You signed up for the WRNS. At nineteen.” His voice was cold.
Gretl had the guts to grin at the table like she'd just played the winning card.
“You can join as a volunteer at eighteen. Someone from the family had to join the Navy, so I thought— why not me?”
Maria’s voice had never been cold. Not even when she had had her terrible argument with Georg over the border patrol in 1933. And yet, this time she was. “You are a university student. What of your degree?”
“I will finish when I am back. Listen, Mama, I know it’s important. But if the Jerries invade, I am not going to make much with my degree. Especially since I suspect the Jerries would hang us on Trafalgar Square as a little family showpiece. You know, all that thing about traitors and all.”
Every chance to keep the conversation within boundaries that made it suitable for children and anxious people alike had just gone out of the window. Liesl, with grim irony, thought of Aunt Elsa, and even wondered whether she was currently having the same feelings about some SS at one of her Viennese parties, blurting out ideas about how to slaughter Jews and political opponents at a formal dinner setting. Or maybe how to hang traitors hiding in Britain. Including her former friends/relatives. She’d never knew, but she wouldn’t be surprised.
She tried, nevertheless. “Listen, I understand it’s a surprise. I understand the feelings of every single one of you. As Gretl says, she is considered of age to volunteer, and no one could ever stop her. Especially since I am sure Anna and Florian would help her escape if you tried to lock her up somewhere. Could we please just love each other as usual, and enjoy this dinner? Especially if the worst should come—and I really hope never to hear anyone speak of hangings at my table again— I think we’d all like this evening to be a pleasant memory.”
Brigitta tried to help. “I agree. But we could let Gretl at least tell us where she is going to be deployed, or what she signed up for.”
“I crossed clerical work and communications. We’ll see then. I should be going to Portsmouth, or at least that’s where I will be starting out.”
Georg really didn’t want to let it slip. “Gretl, why on earth did you volunteer?”
“Papa, have you been listening to Kurt, to Brigitta, to Henry? Or to yourself. We need to protect the country. You are doing your part too, after all. You are just lucky you can do it from home. Or Mama with her bandages. Or Henry, Liesl, Martha, James, Louisa. Not everyone is this lucky. Even Friedrich was sent away, and might be sent away again.”
Kurt jumped in. “Papa, if you think about it, we are the seven eldest ones, and we are all doing our part. And we learned from you: to protect those you love. That’s what we are doing. For you two, for our younger siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews. We already had this conversation a few months ago.”
Brigitta continued. “And we are also learning so much, and getting to know many people. I am sure Gretl will have more chances in life with a degree and an experience as Wren. Especially since we women have fewer chances than you.”
Maria sighed. “It’s just that… you are our children… in my mind, I can still see you seven as you looked the day I met you… and I will always see you other four as my little children, too. And now we have some of you in a uniform during a war, and the rest of you willing to do something. I am worried even Karoline and Thomas will start saying they want to enlist.”
Karoline felt almost offended. “If I have to do something, I will do it! I just think it’s too early for me!”
Thomas, at five, was more relaxed. “I can stay home with you, Mama. You need company for when Papa is away on business.”
Maria smiled. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Florian nudged his father. “Come on. Gretl in the Navy. Family tradition. You should be proud. And let’s enjoy the evening, as Liesl is trying to say.”
It was no use: the siblings had always been a strong unit acting together since their mourning for Agathe, and as the younger grew up, they were progressively coopted in their system of mutual support. They could win any discussion, if they wanted to. Suspending allowances would have only worked on few of them, at the moment.
And Liesl was right. It was meant to be a moment of joy, not of arguments.
So, Georg and Maria conceded that the children were right, and the meal was ended in peace, focusing on the joy of having everyone at the table.
After eating, Liesl, Henry, and Kurt brought out the gramophone, and Brigitta started mixing drinks, including those for the nanny and the children (who slowly started to fall asleep on chairs, divans, and sofas).
Kurt complimented her. “Just like at one of our watering holes, Gitti!”
“Of course!”
Friedrich, leading his dear Nancy to the makeshift dance floor, jested. “As long as nobody sings ‘We're Going to Hang out the Washing on the Siegfried Line’, because I have developed a sudden antipathy for that song. Not sure why.”
“Don’t you worry, brother,” Kurt retorted with a grin, “we don’t sing 'Brown Jobs' songs at our bars and pubs.”
Georg was confused. “Is that a nickname for the Army?”
“Of course, Papa,” said Brigitta, handing him a mysterious drink mixed by her. “Don’t worry, since we desperately need the Andrew, there is nothing in here that might kill you.”
“The Andrew?”
Kurt continued, while dusting a record. “You Navy boys are ‘The Andrew’ or ‘The Grey Funnel Line’. Only for beautiful ladies like Gretl we keep it to ‘the Wrens’.”
Brigitta handed Gretl a drink, too. “By the way, you are going to have gorgeous uniforms. Ours as WAAF are definitely studied to keep men away.”
Maria’s ears stiffened. “And that should be a problem?” Georg was at her side, scowling as to support her. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the thought of Gretl in uniform, or that she had grown old enough to joke about it.
Brigitta, a strategist, knew how to save the conversation. “It is if you dream of finding a husband.”
Maria was the wrong woman for that line of reasoning. “Your father fell in love with me even if I wore a horrible dress on my first day. So horrible that I remember you making fun of it, although in your own sweet way.”
“Mama, you got beautiful dresses after that, come on.”
As their parents turned away, Brigitta, Gretl, and a supportive Martha giggled. Kurt tutted in jest.
Henry and Liesl announced, “So, only Friedrich, who probably shouldn’t even dance, has led his lady to the dance floor. We, Lord and Lady Aldbury, are extremely disappointed.”
Kurt put on ‘Roll out the barrel’, and pulled Anna to him to dance, and everybody slowly followed. Georg remarked, “This song has really made it around the world.”
“Almost as we did,” said Florian, who was trying to dance with Martha, both enjoying it immensely. “Flo, you are tall for a ten-year-old!”
After that, Kurt selected ‘Ferry Boat Serenade’, and took Gretl as his partner. “So, our Margarethe a Wren. No ATS, no WAAF. Did you really do that to please Papa?”
“Well, yes. And for the uniforms, of course.” She winked.
“Send us the pictures. Who knows when we will see each other again!”
“Well, as long as you say ‘when’, it’s good, dear brother.”
Kurt didn’t reply. Only he and Brigitta knew that the Air Force did not speak of the other option, ever.
Brigitta selected ‘Rhumboogie’ next. “I’m sorry you’ll have to listen to the Andrews Sisters a lot. But they’re great. And they make people forget the war, just like Glenn Miller.”
There were layers in their choices—messages hidden in rhythm and melody, never spoken outright. Friedrich, still dancing carefully with Nancy, heard them loud and clear. He had been there. He had seen what the Channel could take, and what it had miraculously returned. The weight of Dunkirk still echoed in his bones.
Gretl had an inkling. But she had not yet lived with the gnawing truth that service could mean disappearance—that someone might leave one morning and never return.
Louisa and James, fluent in casualty reports and statistical loss from their work with the RAMC, read the message too. They heard it in the spaces between the words, in what Kurt and Brigitta left unsaid.
The others did not. Even Georg, watching over his younger children while twirling Maria gently in his arms, smiled as though this were only a party. Perhaps for tonight, it was.
‘Sent For You Yesterday and Here You Come Today’, ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’, and other pre-war tunes swelled through the room, while Kurt and Brigitta reminded everyone:
“You live in London. Go out dancing. It’s open. You’re free.”
And for a few precious hours, the music drowned out the strange, encroaching language of war. Kurt and Brigitta danced with every sibling, spouse, and parent, then asked to take other pictures, always under the guise of making their evenings memorable. What they really meant was never to have regrets.
All of them fell asleep directly at the Haverstones, and they made for their houses only the day after— including Friedrich and Nancy, who had managed to give in to their passion despite the crowded house and the strain from the dancing, and poor Kurt and Brigitta who desperately needed to sleep in a bed without mates around them.
Kurt and Brigitta did enjoy sleeping at their parents again for a few nights, and were happy to accompany Gretl to Victoria Station with the rest of the family. They saluted her palm out, and she, already wise thanks to their father, saluted palm down.
And even Georg returned the salute.
“It goes even for you. Write, come home when you can, and remember: coming home alive is the most important thing you can do, Margarethe.”
“Alive, in a nice uniform, and maybe with a Navy husband. You should both be happy,” she said as she kissed her parents.
“Margarethe,” Maria said softly, trying the name for the first time. “Be safe.” She had always been Gretl to her; ‘Margarethe’ only when talking to her teachers. And she had been the only one who had talked to her teachers from the beginning to the end of her school years in Salzburg.
The siblings’ greeting was unique. They all said it, even Thomas, in unison or something close to it. “Be a Trapp sibling.” And she understood exactly what that meant: love, unity, and courage.
As the train pulled away, they stood watching — siblings and parents — not waving, not weeping, just remembering: love, unity, and courage.
Notes:
• The family's experience in the evacuation is my creation. However, key events and details are historically grounded.
• Friedrich’s memory of a strafing attack is inspired by a scene in the 1958 film "Dunkirk".
• The Stuka attack on a hospital ship, and the presence of a dive-bombing Stuka near the beach, draws from similar scenes in the 2017 film "Dunkirk".
• The story's trajectory aligns with the real-life events of 1940. With the successful evacuation of most of the BEF, the focus of the war will now shift to the Battle of Britain and the subsequent Blitz. Our heroes will be directly involved in these next phases of the conflict.
Chapter 31: A matter of life and death
Summary:
July 1940: the German Air Force, the Luftwaffe, starts attacking Britain. Everything is in the hand of people like Kurt and Brigitta and their comrades-in-arms, who resist in front of the danger and of the strenuous rhythm of the battle. The two siblings also fear that Gretl might not survive her posting as Wren. It is the Battle of Britain. Georg and Maria can only pray for their children, and try to keep the others safe.
In September, when the raids start (the Blitz), the entire population is targeted. Georg and Maria, as well as Henry and Liesl, and Frank and Eileen, have to take decisions. Once again, the Trapp siblings help them make the right ones.
Georg and Maria discover how hard it is to be parents during a total war.
Notes:
Warning: non-graphic descriptions of dogfights and air raids; implied deaths; distressing situations depicted.
British fighter planes: Spitfire, Hurricane. German fighter plane: Messerschmitt Bf 109 (often abbreviated in Mes or 109…). German dive-bombers: Stuka (mentioned in the previous chapter). German bombers: Heinkel, Dornier.
“Pissing in the old lady” here means “in the suit”.
Title: “A matter of life and death” is not just a phrase, but also Iron Maiden’s 2006 album.
The historical background of the fictional story is based on sources and eyewitnesses' reports.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There goes the siren that warns of the air raid
Then comes the sound of the guns sending flak
Out for the scramble, we've got to get airborne
Got to get up for the coming attack
Jump in the cockpit and start up the engines
Remove all the wheel blocks, there's no time to waste
Gathering speed as we head down the runway
Got to get airborne before it's too late
Running, scrambling, flying
Rolling, turning, diving, going in again
Running, scrambling, flying
Rolling, turning, diving
Run, live to fly
Fly to live, do or die
Won't you run, live to fly
Fly to live, aces high
[from “Aces High”, author: Steve Harris – Iron Maiden, dedicated to the Battle of Britain pilots]
RAF Biggin Hill, 10 July 1940
“Hey, von Trapp, is this what you would eat for breakfast in Austria?” Murray was so curious about his country, and Kurt noticed even Oliver Carter, the young bomber pilot, raising his head along with Andrews and the others.
“Well, our kind of bacon is different. We used to have more cake. No beans. More cold cuts. Oh, and lots of good coffee.” Kurt continued chewing with relish. They might scramble for the usual reconnaissance or disturbance incursion, and then who knew when he would get his stomach filled?
“Cake?” Murray was surprised. “That’s fancy. Hear this, Carter? Did you have cake for breakfast at your father’s estate?”
Dickinson was more taken by another detail. “Lots of good coffee. That would be just what we’d need.”
Kurt smiled. “Great to wake you up. Although many of us would end up pissing in the old lady, I fear!”
Carter cut in. “Anyway, we sometimes had cake, too. I’d say coffee and cake is better than tea and cake, or even of coffee and tea.”
Kurt smiled at the young boy. “I perfectly agree.”
Murray slapped his napkin. “Now I want cake. Thank you! I feel like a naughty boy.”
Andrews elbowed him. “You are a naughty boy. Some of our WAAF girls would be ready to sign a declaration.”
Kurt laughed. He had been transferred from Manston to Biggin Hill, since Fighter Command foresaw the need to protect not just the Channel, but the country. Along with him, several RAF and WAAF had been transferred, too. He was also nearer to London, which meant he could sometimes pop up and greet his family or organise an expedition to Bentley Priory to see Brigitta. Or Brigitta might visit him, returning the favour.
Gretl had sent pictures of her Wren uniform to everyone. Brigitta was right: those uniforms were exceptional. And, since his sisters were all beauties, it would only stand to reason that their little Margarethe would soon have half the Navy at her feet just by greeting them in her own cheerful and sweet manner, perfectioned in those seven years when she had been the baby of the family.
After breakfast, they all went out to sit on their lawn chairs in front of the cabins, looking upon their aircraft. Kurt inhaled the smell of the grass and of the dampness—slightly different from the one in Salzburg, he had noticed—the metallic smell of fuel and oil…
… and, of course Hayes’s and Dickinson’s cigarettes.
“Bull, you and your sister are the strangest smoking non-smokers there is. Or non-smoking smokers. Come on, join us for one, and let’s watch the replacements land on their bellies.”
“I just hope I am not called to brief the Polish and Czechoslovak in German again. That was one of the most embarrassing and potentially dangerous missions of my life. And I am saying this even though I flew at Dunkirk!”
Kurt let them give him a cigarette and lit it. “Anyway, my brother Friedrich and my sister Liesl are like me. They officially don’t smoke, until they do, usually in social settings. Only Louisa quit. Martha and Gretl never picked it up. The others are still children, although I would not be surprised to hear that Anna and Florian had tried to smoke. Those two are spirited!”
Hayes mocked him. “You should get your entire family into the Air Force!”
“Well, considering that Friedrich is a doctor, and that Florian is ten and Thomas is five… unless we let ladies fly, we are not going to go anywhere.” He puffed. “Brigitta would love flying a fighter. I mean like we do, not like the ATS.”
Garson and Dickinson exchanged knowing smiles, then Garson commented, “Christ, imagine a Jerry seeing your sister’s legs from the cockpit… we’d save on munition! Even with those ghastly stockings, one can see she has beautiful legs, not just eyes and lips. Are all of your sisters like that?”
“Are you seriously asking me to rate my sisters’ legs? They are all beauties on the outside as well as on the inside, believe me. Some are taller, some less so. But I am definitely not describing their legs to you! And Anna is twelve, and Karoline is eight! Bloody hell! And who would stretch their legs in a cockpit, anyway?”
Dickinson elbowed Garson. “We should ask Carter. He sure loves Brigitta’s legs. He goes on and on about your sister’s inner and outer beauty.” All the men guffawed.
Poor Carter blushed. Kurt had no idea a grown man who was not Friedrich could blush like that. Apparently, he could. He felt sorry for the young man. He knew what it meant to suffer for love.
The sudden, piercing shriek of the scramble bell ripped through the morning air, a sound that would soon become as ingrained in their daily rhythm as breathing. The banter ceased instantly. Cigarettes were dropped, chairs scraped back, and the casual atmosphere shattered into a controlled chaos.
“Scramble! All squadrons scramble!” A voice boomed from the dispersal hut, already hoarse.
Kurt extinguished his cigarette heel on the grass with the sole of his boot, his earlier laughter forgotten. This was it. The first alarm of the day, a new, unwelcome dawn. They sprinted, a blur of flying jackets and urgency, toward their waiting Spitfires, already being warmed up by their ground crews. The roar of engines quickly drowned out everything else.
As Kurt pulled himself into the cockpit, his breath already coming in short, sharp gasps, he scanned the sky. It was clear now, but he knew the radar rooms were already alive with blips, plotting rooms a frenzy of counters. He briefly thought of Brigitta, and wished her good luck in his mind.
Kurt and his squadron had been awaiting something, but they still couldn’t know that this wasn't just another patrol; this was the opening act of something far larger, something that would define their lives for weeks, perhaps months. This wasn't Dunkirk, a desperate retreat. This was home, and it was going to be defended.
Bentley Priory, same day
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Greater London, at the nerve centre of it all, Bentley Priory hummed with a different kind of tension. In the underground operations room, Brigitta stood at the edge of the vast plotting table, her eyes fixed on the Group 11 sector. She wasn't an active plotter herself today; her role as a WAAF officer was more in coordinating the flow of information, ensuring the right messages got to the right people. But the pressure was palpable.
The room was a subdued hive of activity. WAAF plotters, their long wooden rakes moving with practiced precision, pushed the counters across the large map of Southern England. Each counter represented a raid, its colour indicating the altitude, its number the size. Above them, on the balcony that overlooked the map, the Air Vice Marshal Keith Park and his squadron controllers barked orders into their microphones, their voices calm but firm, directing their fighter squadrons like pieces on a chessboard.
Brigitta watched as a cluster of red counters—indicating high-flying enemy aircraft—appeared rapidly in the Channel, heading north-west. Then another, directly towards a convoy hugging the coast. The constant reports of 'Hostile' targets began to overwhelm the air, increasing with every passing minute. Her stomach tightened. Convoys. She knew too well the vulnerability of ships, the lives dependent on them. Her family echoed in her mind: there could be ships of the von Trapp-Whitehead shipping companies, now shattered by this very enemy. Or her father might have drafted a strategy for the Navy against submarines that would now be rendered useless. Even coastal radar stations and naval bases were targeted, and Brigitta hoped Gretl would be safe.
“Scramble Biggin Hill, Sector Orange!” a controller shouted, his voice echoing slightly in the vast room. “Target: Convoy 'Booty'!”
Brigitta instinctively looked towards the Biggin Hill sector of the map, a grim satisfaction at the rapid movement of the defending fighter counters. Kurt. He would be up there. She pictured him: not the carefree boy, not the engineer, not even the sweet brother who was her best friend, but the determined pilot, soaring through the sky above the very waters her family had once sailed. This battle was a matter of life and death not just for Britain; it was for everything they had lost, and for everything they had found.
The attacks between Dunkirk and now had just been Göring testing and probing the RAF. Now, the Reichsmarschall knew what he was up against, and he knew what to do. First, attack convoys, ports, and radar.
From the Air Force perspective, it was clear that the dreaded moment was here. Either Germany wanted to isolate Britain on her island forever, or they wanted to invade, or to force their surrender at the very least.
What Brigitta had told their family of the days of Dunkirk, what Kurt had heard during the debriefing, became the reality for most of the Air Force in July already. Kurt learned how to sleep under the wing of his Spitfire, or even in his Spitfire, a few times. Every second mattered, and he thanked that his new mother had been such a sport enthusiast, because his physical fitness had been decisive several times. And the personal motivation kept him motivated even when he felt it was all too much.
He was terrified for Gretl. Naval ports and radars were being targeted. Portsmouth was constantly under attack. He tried to think that the Wrens must have bunkers, too. That Martha and Gretl’s love for football had made them fit to run to shelter, too. He’d rationalised that he’d hear news soon, if anything happened.
Brigitta’s schedule was once again revolutionised. Sleeping near the ops room, although not favoured by Command because they needed plotters and officers with a reactive mind, was sometimes a sheer necessity. She was changing roles continuously depending on the needs of Command. At least, all this constant pressure kept her mind from drifting away to thoughts of Kurt and Gretl not surviving.
They both wrote home trying to explain the situation. That the Luftwaffe was trying to cut Britain’s supplies and win supremacy in the skies, and that they were fighting in the first line. That they would not come home, because leaves were few and short, and they usually spent them catching up on sleep and maybe singing with the others. That they loved them, always. And that they knew they were exactly where they needed to be.
There was a breathless moment of joy—brief, fleeting, but real—the instant the wheels left the ground. The Spitfire lifted into the blue, its engine singing beneath him, and for a heartbeat, Kurt was no longer a soldier. He was weightless, untouchable, part of the sky. The clouds drifted like slow thoughts, and the sunlight glanced off the wings like a promise. This was the moment before fear. Before rage. Before resolve. It felt like freedom—like tomorrow still existed, and held the promise of a beautiful future full of joy, love, and colours.
Then, everything shifted in Kurt’s head.
The formation might have had a convoy, a radar, or Gretl’s posting at Portsmouth as target, or anything else, really: it didn’t make a difference to him, to them in those moments in the air. That’s not what they saw or what they thought of. Shapes and trajectories: that was what mattered. He could not allow himself to go frantic when engaging the enemy just above his sister’s posting: he would not help anyone.
The Messerschmitt escorting the bombers was a blur of black and grey against the vast summer sky, a mosquito darting through a chaotic dance. Kurt, his lungs burning, hauled back on the stick, the Spitfire groaning in protest as he pulled a tight turn, his eyes glued to the enemy. He felt the familiar tremor in his hands, the adrenaline a cold rush through his veins. He squeezed the trigger. Tracers arced, a deadly, fiery thread connecting his guns to the enemy. A flicker of smoke, then a more definite plume. The Bf 109 rolled sluggishly, losing height, a broken hawk spiralling into the glittering chaos below.
One down.
Dickinson was on one of the bombers. They would not pass.
He barely had time to register all of it before another enemy fighter flashed past his canopy, pulling him back into the swirling melee. There was no time for elation, only survival.
Still, they would not pass.
“Chalk up one for Bull. Second kill.”
Still not enough. They kept coming.
On the ground, the congratulations of his squadron could not still the worry that resurfaced as soon as he stopped being Bull, the merciless engineer and pilot, and got back to Kurt von Trapp, the young man who worried for his two sisters, who wanted his family to be safe, and who hoped to see peace and find the love of a lifetime.
Only news from Brigitta and Gretl and from home could satisfy that man, until Bull was needed again, and then it was the Spitfire again, calling to him. The speed and roar of the Rolls-Royce Merlin motor and the freedom of being in the sky gave him that instant of happiness, until that feeling of being a knight fighting the enemy re-emerged, and ushered in his cold, calculating persona.
July bled into August, a relentless blur of sorties and dogfights. The Luftwaffe’s attacks intensified, their focus shifting with grim precision. The skies above England became a constant battlefield, and the men of the RAF, including Kurt, pushed themselves past the point of exhaustion, knowing that every minute in the air could be their last. The familiar wail of the air raid siren, a constant companion, now held a new, chilling urgency.
Having failed to break the convoys entirely, the Luftwaffe turned its fury directly onto the RAF’s airfields, aiming to cripple Fighter Command on the ground. For pilots like Kurt, already living by the minute, this meant the battlefield could now erupt at any moment, anywhere. And losing aircraft on the ground was simply out of question.
Kurt had a few close calls himself. The thought of all those hikes, trips, and matches with his siblings and parents since 1926 that had forged his physique brought him a smile and the firm conviction that he could always reach his Spitfire first, even now that they visited them directly home, bugger those Jerries.
Now he was also terrified for Brigitta, as if Portsmouth under fire hadn’t been enough. She had told him they had moved Ops room in a bunker, but there was often talk of WAAF killed during a raid, and it was hard not to think that she might have been walking to or from her bunk to the building and been caught. He was always relieved when he got news, from her or reported by someone or from home.
The siren, a familiar wail, tore through the pre-dawn quiet at Biggin Hill, but this time it wasn't a distant threat. Explosions ripped through the air, close, too close, shaking the very earth beneath his boots. Kurt, already half-awake, had been dozing, propped against his Spitfire's landing gear. He saw the flashes, the dust erupting from the airfield buildings, heard the frantic shouts of ground crew. A squadron of Dorniers, escorted by 109s, was directly overhead, bombs raining down.
He didn't think: he moved. Scrambling into the cockpit while screaming for Andrews and Murray—his ground crew—he felt the familiar thrum of the Merlin engine kicking to life even as shrapnel pinged against the fuselage. He was airborne in moments, barely clearing the rapidly cratering runway. A Messerschmitt, its gunports spitting fire, was already lining up on another Spitfire still taxiing. Instinct took over. Kurt banked hard, lining up his shot from a seemingly impossible angle.
His guns hammered, a satisfying vibration through the stick. The 109 shuddered, its attack broken, before it blossomed into a fireball against the morning sky, tumbling harmlessly away from the airfield. A desperate save. He had saved a comrade, a plane, perhaps even his own bunk.
“Chalk one up for Bull. Third kill.” They’d need three a day, though. Not three in three months.
Later that day, amidst the smouldering wreckage and grim faces, his Wing Commander Dickinson had clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture speaking more than words. The official paper came through a week later: Flying Officer Kurt von Trapp. It felt less like an honour and more like a heavy acknowledgement of the unrelenting, brutal reality they now faced daily, his base now heavily damaged.
Nevertheless, he wrote home with the news, and wrote Brigitta and Gretl, too.
And he drew another swastika with the chalk on his plane—his own kill count.
Trapp House, Kensington, July-August 1940
“You know, darling, there are many reasons why I miss our Gretl terribly. And if the increasing probability that she will find herself in the middle of danger wasn’t enough, now we have the fact that no one was home to hear where the four young ones have gone. Of course, not even Anna could be trusted to leave a note.” Georg was worried and exasperated.
Maria knew they usually just ran to Kensington Gardens, or even Hyde Park if they felt like it. Some of their friends wanted to go to the riverbank of the Thames, too, but Tommy often protested, in those cases, since it was longer.
“I understand. And I feel the same. But nothing is going to change.” She exhaled, and abandoned herself to her husband’s embrace.
“Should we go and check Kensington Gardens?”
“Let’s just do it. It’s much better than just staying here, worrying. Unless you need to revise your strategy…”
“There isn’t much the Navy or private shipping companies can do right now. It’s all in the hand of Kurt, Brigitta, and their comrades-in-arms. At least, the danger to civilians has been limited so far.”
They walked hand in hand towards the garden.
As it was often the case in those days, they met people looking up in the sky. Heads tilted back, shading eyes with cupped hands. Most dogfights or attacks didn’t take place directly over the city—Georg was aware that the Luftwaffe currently had very specific targets that did not involve London if not the operational airfields—but occasionally, the faint growl of engines or the stutter of distant machine guns drifted over, or the high contrails of a skirmish were simply visible, ephemeral white lines criss-crossing the blue.
After just a few steps into the Gardens, they spotted their four youngest children lying in the grass, surrounded by other children who were commenting animatedly, faces upturned, eyes wide with a terrifying mixture of fascination and thrill.
“Hear that? The Spitfire’s in the sun!” a boy yelled, pointing.
“Hey, look! The Spitfire got the Mes!”
“YAY!”
“Look at those Heinkels. Where are they going?”
Florian obviously protested, mimicking a dive-bomber's wail. “That’s not how you pronounce Heinkels! It’s like this: Hyne-kels!”
“Stop it, or we’ll tell everyone you’re a Jerry!”
Anna took over, standing a little taller. “We are Austrian and British now, never Germans. And I hope those Hyne-kels,” she said with the right pronunciation, stressing it, “are not going to attack Bentley Priory, where our sister is.”
“Which one?” one of the children asked.
“Brigitta. She works there. It’s like their headquarters, where they check what is happening and tell the Spitfires and Hurricanes where to go.”
Maria and Georg exchanged a look, the worry etching deeper lines around their eyes. They approached with a warning tone. “Good afternoon, children. No note, lying in the grass with aircraft engaging in combat overhead… can we have an explanation?”
“Everyone watches the dogfights!” Florian straightened up, a defiant glint in his eye.
Georg was still sour, his gaze briefly flicking to the cloudless sky. “Until someone gets hit, Florian. And still no explanation for you leaving no note at all!”
Maria added, stepping closer and putting an arm around little Karoline and Thomas. “We are already worried sick for Kurt, Brigitta, and Gretl. Is it really so difficult that we would like you to let us have fewer worries?”
The distant thrum of engines, too high to be a British bomber, seemed to underscore her words.
Their life had become steeped in prayer. They asked the children to join them often; but in the evenings, when there was no urgent message from the shipping company or the Navy concerning a new attempt to counter the German attacks, Maria and Georg would quietly recite the rosary—or at least several prayers—including one aching plea to the Lord, to the Holy Mary, and always to Agathe.
A prayer that hurt to say.
“Please, protect our three heroes. And if their time on this earth must end, take them with you. They are good-hearted children. They didn’t start this war. Agathe, we rely on you.”
It had long been a comfort in difficult times to speak to Agathe. They had always felt like a team—she in Heaven, they on earth—loving and working for all eleven von Trapp children in their own ways. And love also meant facing the unbearable: that three of their children could die at any time. Perhaps in pain. Perhaps even cursing. Only Agathe could reach them then.
“It is a painful business, being parents.”
Maria didn’t need to explain. From Agathe’s anguish, knowing she would leave seven little ones behind, to their own fear each time danger came close to their eleven—whether children or grown—they knew that pain intimately.
“And yet,” Georg whispered, tightening his embrace around Maria, “I am glad I’ve shared all this with you. And with Agathe, of course. Though I had hoped, after one war and a scarlet fever epidemic, that we might have had some peace—just raising the children and growing old together. Not a slow descent into madness, and a second war.”
Maria sighed.
“It’s no use longing for what could have been. We are here, now. Still raising the children—and the grandchildren. Still growing old together. One day at a time.”
Letters, sometimes calls arrived. Brigitta saying she was OK, but tired. Kurt saying the same. Gretl saying she had no idea that Mama’s love for all sports would have helped her reach a bunker in record time—Kurt’s very same words. All three of them asking to let them know about the others. Then, a surprise: Kurt saying he was being promoted to Flying Officer.
They read the letters aloud when they gathered—either at their Kensington house or at the Haverstones’ in Mayfair; sometimes at Friedrich’s in Hampstead. Martha made an effort to come by often, even when she was tired—collapsing against Maria or Georg as if she were once more the seven-year-old girl Maria had first met. Her parents brushed her hair and kissed her just like before, as they would love to do even with the other three heroes, and as they often did with the others when they saw them almost crumbling under their stress and worry, or just looking at them as if they had all the answers.
For some of them, the daily challenge was patients; for others, politics; for the young ones, simply growing up during war. Maria did not remember it looking like that.
“We might have had less to eat, but I don’t remember being this immersed in the war. Maybe if I had still lived in Tyrol at the time, near the front, I would have felt more like our children. Truly at war.”
Georg looked at her. “I am rather sure this is different from last war. When I went to the Erlhof on leave, it was like nothing was wrong on the outside. It was peace, for a while. Now, we can all try to carve out our moments of peace, but there is always something: the children having either only hours or one, two days to spare; news, news everywhere; sirens and planes.”
7 September 1940, Hyde Park, London
“Can you believe it? This sunny and this warm, almost hot for English standards,” chirped Henry. The smell of cut grass and of food from the other families enjoying the day permeated the air. If Friedrich and James had not been in uniform, they might have convinced themselves that Kurt and Brigitta were away on business, and Gretl for university, and that there was no war.
The three younger couples had managed to finally enjoy some time together by themselves that morning instead of running to their duties to country and Crown, and it showed on their happy and relaxed countenance, in their tender gestures. Maria and Georg, from their long-established happiness, were content to see such a scene. They were all doing so much for the war effort; they deserved it.
They had all met in Hyde Park for a family picnic to not let the beautiful day go to waste, and everyone had agreed immediately.
“It’s just sad that Papa, Friedrich, James, and Louisa are scribbling instead of playing with us, “ grumbled Anna, crossing her arms. “It ruins the atmosphere!”
“Sweetheart, Friedrich and James are on active duty; Louisa is always supportive of her husband, and I am trying to keep up. We are still at war, after all. Would you rather have us at home, ‘scribbling’, as you say?”
“And we will all make a pause, don’t worry.” Louisa tried to encourage her sister.
“Besides, think of Kurt, Brigitta, and Gretl, who cannot be with us. We are the lucky ones,” glossed Friedrich. He left out Aunt Hede: he didn’t want to upset his father with thoughts of her under Nazi occupation in Paris.
Maria brushed her daughter’s hair, keeping an eye on the younger ones. “We are lucky.” She looked at the tender scene of the couples sitting together, she and Georg included, of the little ones hiding in their parents’ chests and asking for kisses, of the others playing or talking.
As the four had promised, there was the occasion to play football all together. There was even ice cream, a rather rare sight since rationing; and yet, a cart came around, and the children—including Anna, who considered herself “not a child anymore”—rejoiced. It was almost surreal to see such a sight, and the children held on to their ice creams as if they were illusions that might disappear soon.
“It means our three heroes are doing their job well, and Papa and uncle Frankie with their shipping companies too, if we can still eat ice cream!” Martha knew that optimism was important. It was not only what she heard in the War Room, but also what she truly believed.
After playing and eating ice cream, it was time for some rest, again. George had made up a sort of peek-a-boo game to have Henry and Liesl kiss him and his sister as much as possible; Henry had commented that “my son is already following in my steps, scheming and plotting,” and Liesl had laughed, her eyes shining with joy. Sarah was trying to climb on Friedrich and Nancy, and had stolen her father’s service cap. Florian, Karoline, Patrick, and Alice tried to pass for ‘older children’ and ‘played cool’.
And Anna… well, Anna suddenly noticed a young and admittedly very dashing RAF man passing by, probably on leave and with people who were most likely his parents. She had noticed him from afar, first because he had the same uniform as Kurt’s, then because that day, somehow, the way he stood so straight and proud, and his dreamy countenance seemed to resonate with her. All her older siblings watched her following him with a very interested expression, and exchanged amused looks, pulling faces. They all automatically thought that Kurt would have delivered the best comment; alas, he was at his base, or on his Spit.
“Ach, Papa, Mama, Anna has just discovered that someone who is not her father or brother might wear a uniform just as well, and look just as great in it.” Liesl, flanked by a snickering Henry, took upon herself the duty of the announcement.
Maria and Georg watched their daughter turn abruptly back to them, blush furiously, and utter “He is… very dashing. It’s not my fault!”
Henry did not resist taunting his father-in-law. “Well, Elisabeth, I’d say they’d have about the same gap we have. Six years, give or take?”
Georg fulminated him with his stare, whereas Maria laughed one of her completely undignified guffaws. “Oh, darling, she has only looked at him. Times are changing, anyway. As she always says, she will be thirteen in five months. It was bound to happen…”
“Yes. In six years, maybe. And even then, with a lot of caution.”
All the siblings laughed, then Louisa added, “Anna, let me know if you need advice about how to make Papa really angry!”
Georg sighed, and then wondered, half in jest, half serious, “Why are all of you conspiring against me? Just because I am the oldest one of the Trapps?”
Laughter was unstoppable: Georg had let himself be cornered, and, in the end, he let everyone make fun of him. It was all so innocent and so happy. The younger children, on the other hand, sided with him against Anna, Maria and the older siblings, judging things like dreaming of a dashing man and kissing stupid.
Same day, Bentley Priory, 4:00 PM
“Enemy aircraft over the Channel,” a call by an Observer announced. “Hostile!” announced the plotters, and the coordinates followed.
While adjusting her headphones, Brigitta's eyes scanned the board, her finger tracing its trajectory. Routine, a silent communication passed between her and the other plotters through focused glances and subtle nods. Each movement was precise, each annotation swift and economical.
Then, the pattern shifted. More blips appeared on the panels, clustering together, their direction unwavering. More calls from the Observers. A collective intake of breath rippled through the room. Brigitta exchanged a swift, grave look with her senior officer. The sheer number was unprecedented. The counters covered the table.
Later, a wave of horrified understanding washed over the room. This wasn't another localized raid; this was something far larger, far more devastating. And it turned towards London.
She watched the counters on the board, each representing a deadly aircraft, inexorably converging on the sprawling symbol of the capital. A silent dread filled the operations room, a stark contrast to the usual focused intensity. Brigitta could almost visualize the scene unfolding miles away – the sunny afternoon, the unsuspecting people… and the impending terror descending from the skies.
No, no, no, no, no, no. That was all she could think. But she could not think away the bombers.
She thought that Kurt must have already gotten his scrambling orders, maybe was already in the air, and that everything was in the hands of the fighter pilots, now. And of God, Fate, luck, whatever.
Back to Hyde Park, same day, shortly before 5 PM
“Come on! You have been living here for two years, already! You must know more British town names by now, Maria!” Henry, James, and Nancy absolutely loved to make fun of the “Austrian Trapps” playing Categories.
“Who said Austrian towns are not allowed in this game?” Georg’s well-known sarcastic tone shined.
“Papa, you’d probably list towns that have been Italian for decades already,” guffawed Friedrich.
“The children fare much better than you,” commented Nancy.
“Well, they are going to school here. I wouldn’t have it any other way,” concluded Maria with a smile.
WooooooooOOOOOOOOOoooooo…WooooooooOOOOOOOOOoooooo…
The siren rose, a thin wail at first, then it thickened, louder, pulsing like a heartbeat through Hyde Park’s open sky.
Everyone looked at each other, unsure what to do, as usual. There had been so many false alarms. It was true: they always worried for Kurt and Brigitta, who were the only ones risking their lives when the Germans attacked RAF bases. A single accident had scared a few of the denizens of London—some Luftwaffe aircraft had lost its bearings and raided some houses instead of an airfield—but that had been just the one time. As for the rest of them… the population had started to take sirens as a beloved fodder for jokes. And, honestly, so had they.
They looked around: a few people did calmly pick up their things, but no one was scrambling for a shelter so far. And many were simply ignoring the warning.
“Well, we might slowly pick up our things too. It is almost five o’ clock, after all. We could have tea at the Haverstones, if you like. What do you say, Henry, Liesl?”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Liesl offered. “Who knows when we will be able to enjoy such a day together again? Autumn will come soon, after all.”
They really did not hurry much, and preferred to inhale the smell of the last grass of the summer together, most of them reminiscing about the same smell in Salzburg.
Friedrich, who had finished packing and had put his cap back on, was the first to hear it. First, the unmistakable boom of anti-aircraft guns. Then…
“What’s that noise?”
James and Georg were the most attuned to the implications of his question, and turned to him abruptly.
Another boom from the anti-aircraft guns broke the silence—closer this time. Then it returned: the low, droning hum, now unmistakable.
“That noise. Can you hear it?” Friedrich stiffened. “I fear this one might be real.”
They looked up, searched the sky, and saw what looked like many black shadows coming from the south. Hundreds of them. Everyone was worried, but that tiny hope that the shadows might have been heading for a target somewhere still lingered.
Not for Friedrich, though. He pushed his cap on his head, and James did the same, nodding to him. Georg realised immediately that they were preparing to act.
They started giving orders, with Friedrich as commanding officer.
“Henry, carry George on your back. Liesl, Mary Agatha. I’ll carry Sarah. Papa, you take Thomas. James, watch for Patrick, Alice, and Karoline: help if needed. And now we run. To the Haverstones, or the first shelter we find. Oh, and no German. English only.”
As he enunciated his command as sternly but calmly as possible, the shadows had become even more visible and audible, and so had the guns. The noise of the aircraft was now more distinguishable, hundreds of propellers.
The little ones started crying, sensing the worry and fear of the adults. “No, darling, don’t cry!” Henry, Liesl, and Friedrich tried to console their children. Thomas and Karoline were rather scared, too, but they tried not to give in to tears, as did Patrick and Alice.
Maria had to pull Florian away, since he seemed fascinated by the aircraft. She repeated her son’s words, “And now we run. To Mayfair.”
They started to run, with Maria trying to play on the middle children’s willingness to challenge each other. She kept an eye on Georg, who was definitely younger-looking and fit, but was still fifty-three, not twenty. And Thomas was tall for his age, as were all the children she had birthed. She hoped he would manage to carry him.
They crossed an Air Raid Protection Warden who tried to direct people and asked them where they were heading to. “Plenty of room in the trenches, here. Where do you want to go?”
Henry explained, “We have our own cellar in our townhouse in Mayfair.”
“Hurry, then! This looks like a real one. Otherwise, this way.”
They chose to keep running to the Haverstones. They had a moment of desperation, when the aircraft was clearly over their heads, and they asked themselves if they had taken the wrong decision.
A blast resounded seemingly coming from behind their backs, and even Karoline, Thomas, Patrick, and Alice started crying. Georg felt powerless, once again, and Friedrich and James even more so. At least, the townhouse was visible, and they made for it, praying.
Another blast, coming from another direction, but still rather near. Henry fumbled the keys, hands shaking. They clattered to the ground.
“Damn it!” he hissed, cursing under his breath.
Florian noticed that the black shadows seemed to be heading east, and some of them were already dropping bombs. “Look!” He sounded more fascinated than scared even now.
Maria pulled him inside as soon as Henry had opened the door, with a violence she never thought she could ever apply to someone.
They scrambled for the cellar, where they found Davies, Henry’s valet, alone, the paper in his hand.
“Just in time for tea, sir,” he deadpanned. “Do shut the door carefully, as per our Captain’s instruction. Wouldn’t want a blast to spoil the brew.”
No one laughed, but no one was impolite towards him either. His British understatement was, after all, well played. It wasn’t Davies’s fault they had ignored the siren and needed to run for the cellar.
Henry waited for his breath to catch, then asked, “The rest of the staff?”
“Probably somewhere, as everyone was. Enjoying the day.”
As they all started to take place and check on the children, Henry commented, while putting down George and kissing him on his nose, “That does not sound promising”.
Davies really had the right spirit for what was to come. “Sir, the day started out promising, and yet here we are. I would just give up on expectations entirely.”
Henry sighed. “Oh, Davies. I should be the one deadpanning. And yet, the idea that something could happen to my family…”
“Sir, it’s perfectly natural. I will be the one with the deadpan face. I am, after all, your valet.”
All the parents appreciated Davies in that moment, even though they could not find the strength to join in the jesting.
Liesl had grabbed a few extra cushions and pillows from the hall as she had passed by, and she was grateful for her instincts, since almost the entire family was here. Only the Swantons weren’t here, seeing as they preferred staying in Norfolk as much as possible.
Louisa and James sat on the floor, and so did Georg and Maria, although Karoline and Thomas elected to stay near them still and leaned on them. So, they both put an arm around one of their children. Frank and Eileen imitated them with Patrick and Alice.
Henry and Liesl had put George and Mary Agatha on a bunk, and so they joined the children, cuddling up. The same did Friedrich and Nancy with Sarah.
Martha, Anna, and Florian sat together on cushions, and were handed blankets to fight the humidity.
They forced themselves to talk—loudly, cheerfully, unnaturally. Their voices trembled at the edges, and every boom from above made someone flinch. Friedrich had learned to suppress the instinct during Belgium, and Georg’s ears had long been trained to distinguish between types of ordnance. But for the others, the soundscape was unbearable: the low, guttural boom of distant impacts, the sudden crack of anti-aircraft fire, the ceaseless drone of engines circling overhead like vultures. It wasn’t just noise—it was a living, malevolent thing pressing against the cellar walls.
The parents clutched their children with the quiet desperation of people who knew they were powerless. Government pamphlets urged calm, claimed fear was contagious. But fear was the only honest reaction. Their children might be spared the truth, but they could not be spared the sounds of war on their doorsteps. Nor the knowledge that somewhere, someone else's shelter had already become a tomb.
They had no idea how long it lasted; but after a while, the sound of the raid diminished, and then disappeared. Then the all clear sounded.
Davies volunteered to open the door, carefully. Georg and Friedrich were right behind him, though.
The house was as they had left it, so Davies, Georg, and Friedrich carefully stepped outside the cellar, then advanced towards the hall. James reached them too. A quick recognition showed the sitting rooms intact, and the streets around them untouched, too. So, they called for the others to come out. There were, of course, the sounds of the emergency services, but they didn’t seem to be headed their way.
Liesl sighed. “Henry, Davies, I guess we could try to make tea for real. Or dinner, considering the hour. I would not have anyone venture outside until we don’t know what happened. And with the blackout, it’s better not to walk. Papa, Friedrich, Nancy: you are good at cooking, you might help too.”
Nancy also suggested: “Everyone go to the restroom. One never knows.”
The children all streamed to a sitting room, while Martha and Eileen started setting the table, with Davies directing them. Anna jested: “Oh, tonight we are no ladies! And Davies is giving orders! Henry will love the subversion!”
Martha shook her head. “Never heard a twelve-year old willingly use the word ‘subversion’, either in German or in English.” She kissed Anna, and got a kiss in return.
Eileen nodded. “She seems to have inherited all the intelligence of Georg and Maria, and to love making use of it.”
Henry announced: “I am going upstairs. I want to check the situation from the higher floors.” They heard him climb the stairs, and move from the one side to the other, then climb further.
Until he yelled: “Come upstairs! Come and look!”
They all followed his voice, everyone picking up a child.
They reached him, and then they froze.
The eastern sky was ablaze, a vast inferno licking the horizon. Orange bled into black, pulsing like a wound in the night. It wasn’t the warm glow of sunset, but a furious, pitiless fire that painted destruction across the city’s face.
Their faces turned ashen in the flickering light. No words came, only the instinctive reaching for someone—anyone—to hold. Georg pulled Maria to him with a force just shy of panic. Frankie clutched at his own hair, as if the pressure inside his skull had to escape somehow.
“The Surrey Docks,” he muttered. “The East End. Has to be.”
Georg nodded slowly, his voice raw. “That’s lives ending. That’s families. And fire eating through the lifeblood of the city—its ships, its warehouses, its people.”
Nancy turned away and buried her face in Friedrich’s chest, her shoulders heaving. Louisa and James clung to each other, their fingers white with pressure. Martha pressed her hands to her face as though she could block out the world, but nothing could block the sight in front of them, or stop the fire that was already claiming its bloody tribute in the east.
Florian asked, “Is your company probably being damaged, Papa, Uncle?”
“Yes, Florian, but that doesn’t matter now. That means people dying, and lack of food, clothing, and materials to repair or build. It’s a disaster.”
Louisa’s voice broke the silence like glass shattering. “They meant it. They knew what they were hitting. The bastards.”
Friedrich and Georg said together, “That’s war.”
Martha sobbed. “It’s horrible. Just… horrible. This is hell.”
Maria’s voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the silence around her. “We must pray. For those poor souls. For Kurt and Brigitta. For whoever’s still alive, out there.”
She didn’t say if they were alive. No one did.
Henry didn’t joke about praying in Latin this time. He didn’t make light of it. Liesl was silently crying on his shoulder now, her fingers clutching his sleeve.
Then they noticed it: a smell, faint at first, but growing stronger. Acrid, sharp, and unmistakable—smoke. It seeped through the closed windows like a warning no one could shut out.
They returned downstairs, the reality pressing in on them. Dinner was modest—some bread, cold cuts, a bit of jam for the younger ones, to make the night less bitter.
No one said much. A few whispered words, a shared glance, a touch of reassurance: hands clasped under the table, arms around shoulders, a kiss to a child’s head. Even Henry reached across and gently patted Davies’s arm.
Then the sound returned. The siren—long, mournful, undeniable.
This time, there was no pretence of cheer.
They stayed in the shelter all night. The children had to be coaxed into uneasy sleep, soothed with lullabies sung too softly to cover the distant thunder.
And they experienced for the first time what the guides and pamphlets had warned them about but never truly prepared them for: the humiliating ordeal of using the bucket. A blanket was hung for privacy, but it didn’t do much. The smell, the shame, the discomfort—it was all part of this new kind of war.
The booms returned. The relentless ack-ack-ack of the anti-aircraft guns. The droning overhead that never quite faded.
And they waited.
By the time they emerged, it was still dark. The house and the street stood as before—quiet, undamaged. But they knew better now. Somewhere nearby, or far off, someone had lost their home. Someone had lost a loved one.
The air was thick with reminders: the choking stench of smoke, the distant wail of bells, and the voices—shouting, calling names, sobbing.
It wasn’t over. It had only begun.
The children were put to bed. Even Anna was glad to lie down for a while.
The adults sat in the kitchen, subdued.
Friedrich broke the silence. “I saw it in Belgium: a shelled or bombed village is dangerous. Walls might collapse. Fires could still be burning. And the ground isn’t safe. No one should go—not to help, not to look.”
They all nodded.
“But I’m going to report to Barts,” he added. “Nancy too. Will you take care of Sarah until we’re back?”
Louisa and James exchanged a glance. “We’re going to London Hospital to report, too.”
Frankie stared. “That’s near the docks! How will you even get through?”
Georg and Maria started to protest, but Louisa shook her head.
“It’s our duty. They’ll need help. We’ll manage. They’ll let us through.”
And so they went.
For hours, the BBC was their only source of news—broad summaries, focused more on resolve than on ruin. The house was quiet. Everyone waited.
In the afternoon, Friedrich, and Nancy returned. Their faces said enough.
“They sent us home.” Friedrich said flatly. “No one is coming in.”
Anna, who had been sitting quietly, looked up. “Why? Are they all right?”
Maria didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
“No, darling. They don’t need doctors anymore.”
Then the phone rang. It was a miracle the call had come through—perhaps because they were doctors attached to the RAMC, or maybe just sheer luck.
It was Louisa. She repeated Friedrich’s words.
“We had many extra beds. We were prepared. But they’re not going to be used. The ordinary wards are enough.”
Maria was worried. “How’s your house?”
“Minor blast damage, as in the entire area, but nothing bad. We’ll manage.”
Maria relayed the brief conversation. Then she, Georg, and the Whiteheads discussed what to do next. Martha decided to make for her flat, with the promise to try to call, too.
Frank and Georg decided to head home—cautiously—and promised to return to the Haverstones if streets didn’t look safe or if their houses were damaged. Friedrich and Nancy decided to do the same, and picked up Sarah.
Meanwhile, some of the Haverstones’ staff was coming back, all in silence and with very concise warnings. “Don’t go east.” Some of them said, “Something fell on Westminster and Kensington, too,” and Georg, Maria and Martha exchanged worried looks.
Like their employers, the staff had scattered to enjoy a rare day of peace—some to Soho, others toward the east. Luck, not planning, had kept many safe. Some others were still missing, and Henry and Liesl feared for them.
The survivors briefly told what had happened to them. “The shop near the City we were in had a basement. We were lucky!” “We first sat in a trench in Hyde Park, then looked for better shelters later, with the second air raid siren. A bomb must have fallen in the park, or in Kensington Gardens.” Sadly, some of the young maids and footmen confirmed that a few had been shopping at Surrey Commercial Docks. Would they return?
Georg knew they had to go home, sooner or later. Better by day, then. “We’ll go and check.”
Henry and Liesl watched their family go and scatter with anxiety. Davies helped them and the staff prepare for the worst.
They were glad to receive Friedrich’s call, the first one. There had been some damage in Camden, but they were just fine.
Martha’s flat was fine, too, apart from blast damages around the building.
The Whiteheads were safe, too. Patrick had simply run back to tell them.
Georg and Maria were lucky too: the house in Kensington was untouched, although they had heard some bombs had fallen towards Earl’s Court.
Liesl tried to coordinate all calls, to inform everyone as news came, but the lines didn’t always work.
Only in the evening did Kurt manage to call.
“Went out in the afternoon, we intercepted a few, shot down a few. I am fine, but tired. Didn’t hear bad news from Bentley Priory, so Gitti should be fine, too. Let us know about Gretl, please! Love you. Stay safe.”
“Stay safe too, Kurt, love you.” Liesl thought about the irony of their fighter ace brother telling them to stay safe.
With the darkness, another raid came, another moment of anxiety. And soon it was clear that there would be no rest at night anymore, and that the day didn’t stay unbothered either.
They had ignored all invites to evacuate so far, but this time Georg, Henry, and Frank decided immediately to send the family to the country.
Henry insisted that Liesl and the children go to Haverstone Hall and stay there. He would join them as often as his House of Lords schedule allowed. Frankie decided it was time to evacuate to their estate in Surrey, between Guildford and Bramley, and he offered Georg’s family the use of the Dower House, which would otherwise stay empty. He had already contacted the staff there, and sent most of the local staff ahead. Maria, Eileen, the children, and a good part of their belongings were sent ahead too, although Maria did come back with the car to pick up the men and the rest of their things.
But above all, a complicated and mostly telephonic Trapp siblings’ council was held with a clear verdict, issued by Friedrich, since Liesl was already in Hertfordshire. Nancy had accompanied him, whereas Sarah had already been brought to the Cleeses in Woking.
“Papa, all of us older siblings want you all to evacuate to Surrey. No staying in London for you. Only necessary trips, possibly without overnight stay. You can work from Surrey just as well. We do not want our younger siblings to become orphans, sorry. We have been through that. They will not. This is an order.”
Georg, helping Maria pack, was surprised—but also impressed that they had taken the time to consult each other and confront him together with unity and care. “And how do you intend to enforce this order?” He grinned at his son.
“Mainly by putting you on the car to Surrey one way or another, and by instructing Mama and Anna. You have no chance.”
Maria hugged her son. “You have always been amazing children. But… what about you?”
“Sarah will stay with Nancy’s parents in Woking. Nancy will go there too when she has her days off. With her schedule, it will be for many days a week, unless there are emergencies. I will go when I can, since I am formally in active service, albeit at Barts. Nancy will visit you too with Sarah, don’t worry.”
“But you… you will all risk! You, Nancy, Louisa, James, Martha. Partially even Henry.”
“And what of Kurt, Brigitta, and Gretl, who are serving? Mama, Papa, we are adults, and we chose our careers. We are doing it for you, for the nation, and to fight Hitler. You two are not serving in any capacity, except for Papa’s consulting; and you still have to raise the youngest four. And, if anything happens, you will step in for Sarah. However, hospitals should be safer, in theory. Hampstead is untouched. There is reason to be optimistic.”
“Your siblings cannot be orphans, but Sarah can?”
“Mama, I am serving. I cannot change my mind. And Nancy will be with me, at the hospital, and sometimes in Surrey, too. And bombers attack the East End, mostly. I am sure Nancy will be fine, and I have good chances too. Louisa and James are the ones in real danger.”
Maria and Georg did think that Nancy could, at least, give up her job and stay with Sarah. But they inferred that her peculiar choice had to do with the bond between Friedrich and Nancy herself. Maria wanted to argue, she really did, and Georg too. But the way Nancy looked at Friedrich—the way she stayed silent—said everything. She understood. Besides, it was true that they seemed to live in a safer part of the city. So, they quit the discussion.
This time, it wasn’t Georg giving the orders. It was his children—calm, united, and unflinching. And he obeyed. They had thought it through, choosing the option that exposed fewer people to danger—so the family could endure, without abandoning its service to the nation.
There was only one decision left. Should they give up the house in Kensington entirely?
Since they had already partially relocated to Surrey, Georg made a few inquiries. An agent expressed interest—he was looking for a house for foreign correspondents. Kensington was a prime location, and so Georg decided to sell the house and move the few things they had gathered in two years to the Whitehead Dower House.
Another brief chapter of their life had closed. All they could do now was pray that their grown children would live to write their own.
The estate’s houses were rather near, and were located between Guildford and Bramley. The Catholic community wasn’t large: mainly Irish and a few Polish refugees, too, but it was enough for them to feel less ‘different’.
Mrs Kelly, the first to welcome them, was the mother of five children in ages similar to those of their children, and she was a warm woman who was happy to have more Catholic children for playmates of her own brood. And anyway, all the local children seemed rather open to new friendships in and around Guildford: some of them had been evacuated, too and wanted to recreate their former environment; others were just lively children always happy to gain new friends for their adventures.
Georg and Maria felt relieved to see that the children were welcome. They had moved so often during the last years, and had to constantly adapt to new situations.
The only problem was that Georg and Maria did not approve of what was, apparently, a country’s pastime: lying in meadows to watch the aircraft, as in London, but with a different kind of battle in the skies now, and with the increased possibility of being hit by debris, or even targeted by escorting fighters. They had to scold the children many, many times, and for the first time, they even raised their voices with them. They did excuse themselves after. “We are terrified of losing you. Who knows what those fighters and bombers will do! Don’t you remember what Kurt and Brigitta wrote? This is not like last summer in London!”
Florian, as usual, tried to argue against his parents’ worries. “The country is full of trenches! We can take shelter there! We have two at the estate already!”
For the first time, Maria and Georg had to be very strict, and instantly grounded the children, even sending Anna and Florian to help in the kitchen. Alas, they knew they could not continuously check on them, and their only possible counteraction was to pray for them as well, and hope.
The older siblings, and even the younger ones, were still plotting behind the scenes, when the lines worked. The idea was to meet at the Dower House all together, by trying to leverage all leaves and all resources. They all wanted to see the house, and to meet one last time before the days became too short to allow for travel. Come October, the hours to travel free of raids would be heavily reduced, and they would need to await the spring, or at least the end of winter, to have enough hours of light again.
Henry was a little nervous at the prospect of travelling for so long with Liesl and the children, but the plan for them was to meet with Brigitta in Watford and avoid London entirely. His task was to find petrol for them and for Friedrich and Nancy, and to see to it that even Kurt had a leave. He leveraged the heroic performance of the RAF on the 15th September, when the entire sky was a battlefield for a day, and when Kurt aced two more kills, despite being exhausted by the continuous scramble orders.
In the end, they managed it. Friedrich and Nancy picked up Sarah in Woking and arrived on Friday, the 27th September, along with Brigitta and the Haverstones, and Gretl, arriving from Portsmouth. Kurt arrived early on Saturday by car. Martha, Louisa, and James arrived by train a few hours later.
Maria, Georg, and the four young ones jumped into everyone’s arms as they arrived. They had all been terrified of never seeing each other again, and everyone was covered in kisses—not just the single token of affection as usual.
At lunch on Saturday, Kurt’s stories were the most coveted. But he began with a simple piece of information that told them more than anything. “We—Brigitta and I— are not going to stay long, I am afraid. We are truly exhausted, and we were granted this brief leave only because even Command knows we have limits. Anyway, I needed to see you. Every time we crossed formations over London, I was so worried they might be the ones to hit you!” Kurt was very sweet, and they felt sorry to see the signs of fatigue on his handsome face. He had been on the front line since July, after all.
The same went for Brigitta. “I have slept in the corridors of the bunkers, sometimes. But what’s that I hear, brother… 5 kills so far?”
Kurt smirked. “See, Papa? Another ace in the family. 5 swastikas chalked up on my plane.”
The children all cheered him, and clapped their hands. Georg clapped his back, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Congratulations, son. But I would be happier if this were all over, and you weren’t up there risking your life. As it’s for all of you, under the constant threat of bombs. We have been worrying about you for days. We have been worrying about Kurt, Brigitta, and Gretl for months, and now all of you who stay in London are in our thoughts and prayers too.”
Friedrich sighed. “As I said before: we didn’t choose to live in this time. But we are choosing how to live it. And we can help end all this, whereas my Sarah, Liesl and Henry’s George and Mary Agatha, then Anna, Florian, Karo, and Tommy cannot. And even you two cannot do much, Papa, Mama. Your consulting and Mama’s sewing are enough. And the love for us. That’s even more important.”
Gretl added her perspective. “And anyway… we met to be together and be happy, for a few hours! And without bombs dropping too near! Why these gloomy thoughts? Come on, Papa!”
Everyone added their own “Yes,” and Kurt said, “Love, food, sleep, and some music! That’s why we are here for!”
Anna lowered her gaze. “We don’t have many records here. We left so many in Salzburg, and we were just starting to rebuild our collection when the war started.”
Kurt hugged her. “We’ll do with what we have. And we might even sing! Brigitta and I, and I am sure even Gretl now has an interesting repertoire!
During the meal, Maria and Georg noticed how Kurt devoured his meal and offered to finish Thomas’s, and even though they were briefly reminded of when he was a hungry little boy with a sweet tooth, and shared a moment of nostalgic tenderness, they reflected on his condition.
“He surely gets more food at his base than outside, where we rely on rations. I hadn’t thought of it. As a pilot, he has to get enough energy to fight.” Georg whispered it in Maria’s ear, as they were helping Mrs Hughes taking away the dishes and plates.
“We could eat less, you and I. We can certainly survive with less. Our children need their food.”
Georg took her hand and squeezed it in agreement.
After lunch, there was a huge football match, while the youngest children were put to rest on blankets. Thomas decided to play instead of taking a nap, and Friedrich, Kurt, and Florian mocked him.
“You’ll fall asleep this evening!”
“I will not! I will stay up with Kurt, Gitti, and Gretl!”
Kurt smirked. “Well, that sounds reasonable. Especially since I fear that I will go to sleep between ten and eleven this evening!”
Florian wondered, “Are you bunking with me and Tommy then?”
Kurt elbowed Friedrich. “I would love to bunk with Friedrich like in the old good times, but I am sure Nancy would not be happy if I stole her husband!”
Nancy put her arm through Kurt’s. “I am rather sure not even an ace RAF Flying Officer could withstand my rage!” Then she kissed him on the cheek to sweeten the blow.
“We should recruit you. Alas, you’d just ferry aircraft with the ATS, or plot aircraft with Gitti. What a waste that would be.”
Kurt, Friedrich, and Nancy all embraced and laughed.
“Come on, it’s time to play!” Anna egged them on.
They played all together, and in the end, even the littlest ones kicked a few balls, eliciting many cuddles from everyone. Even George kissed his sister Mary Agatha and his cousin Sarah.
“They are good. Right, Daddy?”
Henry ruffled his son’s hair. “They are. It seems to run in the family.”
Then there was Church, and the family briefly separated, only to come back for dinner. Henry had somehow brought some ‘extras’ “from the Earldom”, and Mrs Hughes had not objected at all.
The meal featured roast beef with rosemary and garlic, courtesy of the Earldom, with roast potatoes from the Whiteheads’ estate, Yorkshire pudding, steamed carrots and swedes, and a gravy made from drippings and ale. A few mysterious bottles of sherry circulated too. There was also a Victory Cake to make everyone happy, and Maria and Georg smiled at seeing Anna, Florian, Karoline, and Tommy eat a good portion with Kurt.
Gretl watched their parents. “Are you not going to eat the cake, Mama, Papa?”
“No, darling. It’s for you children. Old or young, doesn’t matter.”
Martha got it. “You are purposedly eating less. Why? We are not starving.”
Georg explained. “But you need more than us. Especially Kurt.”
Kurt tried to object, but Maria was firm. “You all need far more energy than us. Eat all you want, darlings!” She squeezed Kurt’s and Martha’s hands, which were nearer to her.
Then there was a round of pictures. “We need pictures with Gretl in her uniform, too!” And so Frank gladly photographed the Trapps, then the three heroes together—Kurt, Brigitta, and Gretl—then the four uniformed siblings—with Friedrich—then the five uniformed ones—James joining in. All this was followed by many spontaneous snaps, taken by whomever was inspired.
Eileen had brought the gramophone from the main house, so Kurt, Brigitta, and Gretl spun the records and animated the dances.
“Hey, Mama, Papa, thank you for bringing my things over, records included!” Kurt kissed Maria while saying it.
“Darling, of course we emptied the house. You are all our children, you know?”
Gretl took her father while warning her mother: “And now you’ll have to dance ‘Sing sing sing’ with Kurt as I dance it with Papa!”
Friedrich and Nancy joined them, but Brigitta announced, “This time, you will have to change partners!”
The records brought over were the small selection Kurt had packed from Salzburg and the few things he, Brigitta, and Martha had bought when they lived in Marylebone. But they had fun with many jazz and swing tunes from the Thirties and current successes.
Everyone danced with everyone. Anna absolutely loved dancing with Friedrich and Kurt, who teased her for her ‘crush’ on the young RAF officer at Hyde Park. Especially Kurt told her, “That is not only good taste: it is also what Sir Winston and our propaganda office would call ‘Blitz spirit’. Of that terrible day, you remember the dashing young officer.”
Anna blushed. “Well, if such an officer should arrive to your base, send him my way!”
Georg yelled from the other side of the room, “Kurt will do no such thing! I am serious!”
Kurt laughed, and kissed his little sister. Brigitta took her father. “Now you are dancing with me, Papa. Let Anna dream. We all had our dreams.”
Maria joined in, while dancing with James. “Brigitta had a crush on the son of a shopkeeper who always handed her stationery purchases, then on a young music teacher.”
“And of course, she told you.” Georg felt left aside.
“Of course, darling.” She would pay for her grinning and teasing with an attack in their bedroom later, and she was all for it.
It was nearly eleven when Kurt let out a long yawn and stretched his arms. “I really need to go to bed,” he murmured.
Brigitta, Martha, and Gretl nodded in agreement. “So do we,” Martha added, stretching with a tired smile.
Louisa stood next. “Honestly, we could all use two quiet nights. And this one’s perfect—Church is already behind us, and we don’t have to be up at dawn. We can sleep as long as we like.”
Maria and Georg exchanged a glance, then nodded.
“The little ones are already dozing off in their chairs,” Maria said. Then, soft but insistent, “And tonight, every single one of you gets our goodnight kiss. No exceptions!”
She covered her worry with a teasing smile, but her eyes lingered a little longer on each face.
“We need to test the guest rooms properly, after all. New house—we have to make sure it’s ready for the next time you all come.”
They weren’t just words. After the month they’d just survived, Georg and Maria meant every kiss, every touch, every word. The Whiteheads were sent off with warm affection, and even Henry, Nancy, and James—who might have protested—were kissed like beloved children. The uncertainty of the coming winter, of the raids and the separation, had made even the most reserved among them soften.
They moved through the house gently, tucking in those already nodding off. Maria smoothed hair and pulled up blankets; Georg quietly switched off lights, dimmed lamps, and whispered goodnights. There was something almost sacred about it all—as if the night itself were asking them to pause, to bless what still was, while they could.
The three adult unmarried sisters had already half-fallen asleep in their beds. The couples had settled into the guest rooms, sharing quiet glances that said we understand, and accepted their goodnight. They saw what Maria and Georg were doing. They felt it, too.
In the boys’ room, Georg and Maria paused. The three had pushed their beds together like they used to during thunderstorms. Florian and Thomas were curled up close beside Kurt.
“Kurt said he needs to sleep,” Thomas whispered.
Maria crouched beside them, brushing back their hair. “Then let him. And you two—don’t wake him tomorrow with your nonsense.” She kissed each of them, softly, as Georg followed.
“I’ll be asleep in two minutes if you just turn off the lights,” Kurt murmured, his voice barely above a breath.
Karoline and Anna were still awake, waiting patiently for their turn. Their hands, even though not so little anymore, reached out for comfort, and Maria gave it willingly, folding them into her arms before tucking them in.
Even the youngest—George, Mary Agatha, and Sarah—were not forgotten. The girls slept through the kisses, but George, still trying to act older than his years, waited up just enough to receive his Oma and Opa’s goodnight.
Maria and Georg were lying on their bed, looking out of the window, curtains open, her head where his heart beat.
Maria felt almost sorry to interrupt her listening to her husband’s heartbeat, so familiar and calming. “It’s good to have them all under one roof again for two nights. And now with our grandchildren, too. Despite all, we manage to have these little moments.”
“And we should always cherish them. Two days and two nights all together, away from the raids. We can protect them.”
Sunday saw everyone start their day slowly, even though Florian, Karoline, and Thomas were a little disappointed to be left playing by themselves in a sitting room, with Mrs Hughes bringing them some milk. Then, slowly, everyone started getting up, and they were not alone anymore.
And slowness was the key. No hurried gestures; no timetables. Just sharing meals, games, matches. A few naps, for good measure. A few pictures, when the sun shone through.
Early on Monday morning, before they sent Anna, Florian, and Karoline to school, they kissed everyone goodbye. They would all rush to get back to their postings or workplaces by afternoon.
Every hug and every kiss was heartfelt: adult, adolescent, or child. Even the Whiteheads passed by to greet them all.
“The days will soon be too short. Who knows when we’ll see each other again? Except for those in London, of course.” Brigitta observed.
Henry agreed. “Between Blitz damage, the Blitz itself, rationing, and who knows what else, I fear we will have to rely on telephones, letters, and telegrams for a while now.”
Martha had made plans with Louisa and James, of course. “We Londoners will definitely try to see each other. We cannot do this alone.”
Kurt embraced Brigitta. “We try to do the same, too—see each other. But you should have an easier time of it. And you, Friedrich, when you are in London—alone or with Nancy—maybe you could sometimes host Lou, Martha, and James. I know you all want to stay near your workplace, but a few calmer nights in Hampstead could help.”
Friedrich and Nancy nodded. “They all have copies of our keys. Henry too. They can come anytime. No need to phone.”
Kurt told Henry “Don’t leave Liesl and the children alone. Don’t you dare! Stay in Hertfordshire as much as you can!”
“I have heard those words. Believe me, I am trying. But we are fighting in Westminster too, Martha, Ricky, and I. And we have good bunkers. Especially if one invites himself to the War Rooms to discuss things.”
Gretl smiled. “With Sir Winston.”
Martha laughed. “Yes, even though sometimes Sir Winston does not remember to have an appointment with Lord Aldbury!” Henry looked quite sheepish.
Liesl was worried for Gretl. “You are all alone in Portsmouth.”
“It’s not so far away from here. I’ll visit often, now that I have most of my basic training behind me.”
The four young ones kissed all the older ones, and their nephews and nieces too. Then it was time for Maria and Georg to kiss and hug them all goodbye.
Maria cried shamelessly. “Please, stay safe, all of you.” Georg didn’t cry, but his jaw twitched. “Come back to us.” They worried especially for Kurt, Brigitta, and Gretl.
“You three are going to break our hearts if you’re not careful.” Maria’s voice trembled.
Kurt offered an extra hug. “Come on. Papa came home from submarine missions. Have faith, Mama. I wouldn’t miss your hugs for the world.”
“You mean mine are still the best? Better than your father’s? Better than Brigitta’s?” Maria sniffled as she tried to tease them all.
“They’re the best, and Brigitta agrees. She’s not jealous. Right, Gitti?”
Brigitta winked from their father’s arms. “They are the best. Mama, you conquered the hearts of all eight Trapps with those hugs long ago.”
Even Georg agreed. “That’s right, darling.”
But Brigitta hadn’t finished. “And that’s why we always come home.”
She paused—and Georg and Maria saw all the older children nodding, smiling. Not the broad smile of their carefree years, but the tender one of those who want to believe that even in a world where bombs fell daily, there was still love.
Then Brigitta added with a grin, “Anyway, I come second. Sorry, Papa!” And she darted off as if daring him to chase her. Everyone laughed.
Kurt waved his keys. “Riding with me or with Henry?”
Brigitta gave a mock sigh. “I’d love to come with you, Kurt, but I doubt anyone at Biggin Hill would drive me to Bentley Priory on time. Besides, someone has to keep Henry calm.”
Henry raised his hands. “What do I know about the Luftwaffe’s plans? You’re all so sure they won’t raid in daylight anymore!”
Liesl brushed his arm. “Darling, they’re in the Air Force. They probably know more than Sir Winston—especially Gitti.”
And with that, the family parted, ready to begin their week between prayers and hope.
Notes:
Children took air raids rather differently, depending on their personality. An example from my family: while my biological mother remained terrified by them all her life, my foster parents still deadpan about them to this day. Some children were even fascinated by aircraft, as our Florian here.
The Battle of Britain and the Blitz aren’t over, despite the tender family moment. What awaits our heroes next?
Chapter 32: And then there was silence
Summary:
A quiet day for WAAF plotter Brigitta von Trapp is shattered when her duty takes a devastating turn. What begins as a routine day in the Ops room becomes a grim journey through a city under attack, accompanied by a rough but kind colonel who is just trying to get the job done.
Notes:
Content Warnings:
• Depictions of dogfights and air raids
• Non-graphic but detailed description of a corpse
• Descriptions of grief
Notes:
• KBO = Keep buggering on, one of Churchill’s slogans.
• Ops room = Operations room
• ARP = Air Raid Protection
• Messerschmitt Bf 109 (also Me, Me 109, 109 etc.): German fighter
• Title: “And then there was silence” is a song by Blind Guardian describing the last days of Troy before its fall.
• Ruskin Arms: A legendary Victorian East London pub, one of the “homes” of Iron Maiden, where they played in the late Seventies. Sadly, not a pub anymore.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bandits at 8 o'clock move in behind us
Ten ME-109's out of the sun
Ascending and turning our spitfires to face them
Heading straight for them, I press down my guns
Rolling, turning, diving
Rolling, turning, diving…doing it again
Rolling, turning, diving
Rolling, turning, diving
Run, live to fly
Fly to live, do or die
Won't you run, live to fly
Fly to live, aces high
[ From “Aces high”, author Steve Harris – Iron Maiden, dedicated to the Battle of Britain pilots]
RAF base Bentley Priory, Wednesday 2 October 1940
As usual, WAAF plotter Leading Aircraftwoman Brigitta von Trapp woke up with a colleague shaking her.
“Brigitta? Brigitta! Come on, dearie, it’s time!” After the usual disorientation in which she usually asked herself where she was—after moving so many times, she was often disoriented—and then why she had to leave the comfortable (sort of) and warm (warmer than the outside) bed, she stretched, focused her eyes, and recognised Patty, one of her roommates and the colleague on duty for the night until 7:00 AM.
“Bunking down now, Brigitte! What a hell of a night, I tell ya. Sleep through the Luftwaffe, hey? That’s impressive, dearie! Hope you're not that sound asleep when you're at the plotting table." And with a wink and a jump, she jumped on the bed. “Oh, and, dearie, KBO—did I get it right, that thing your sister told you?”
“Oh, yes! Thank you! Well, have a good sleep,” replied Brigitta, mingling her words with her last yawn.
Proud of her brain’s quick warm-up, she jumped down her bed and rushed to the restroom, then the washroom. She was on duty at 8:00 AM, but she wanted to save time for her breakfast. Despite her meal being a far cry from her life before this war, she still enjoyed the ritual. If she stopped to think about how the tea was, well, tea and not coffee (and a watered-down tea at that), she would never ever want to wake up again.
However, sitting at the table for a while, a warm cup in her right hand and a slice of bread in the other, her thoughts for company, was her moment in this new community life. She had made it clear that she was not a morning person, but that she would make up for it in the evenings at the bar. Breakfast, instead, was a moment to just be, by herself, maybe thinking of absolutely nothing, maybe daydreaming, maybe thinking of some engineering issue she found fascinating.
Sometimes she dared even reading a newspaper, or a letter from her family.
She would have thought that being the fifth of eleven children would have prepared for living in a barrack. Alas, that was not true. Not to mention that she missed reading and dreaming during the day.
However, she loved her job. As a graduate engineer from the Technische Universität of Vienna, she had been selected immediately and set up for a fast-tracked intensive training.
Many officers had tried to convince her to choose another type of service, drawing on her bilingualism and on her other languages. However, that was not what she wanted in life (or she would not have chosen to study at the TU!); also, she was aware that her language skills were nothing compared to Liesl’s, Friedrich’s, Louisa’s, and Martha’s (lucky Martha who worked with everyone’s hero, Prime Minister Churchill, in his War Cabinet!).
This morning, Brigitta had chosen to simply let her brain roam free while consuming her frugal breakfast.
A quick visit to the washroom to brush her teeth, and she was ready to take her place in the Operations Room.
The short walk to the place that would command all of her attention and energy for at least 4, if not 5 or even 6 hours was accompanied by a weak light trying to make its way through some thin but persistent fog.
She greeted cheerfully all the RAF and WAAF she met, camaraderie being one powerful sentiment, she found out (and this coming from someone who loved her extremely large family devotedly).
She met some of the colleagues who should have dismounted at 7:00 AM, probably caught up in something important—and according to Patty, the Luftwaffe had kept most of them rather busy as usual—and some of the colleagues taking over at 8:00.
She was to relieve Susan this morning. She saw her friend and, after a gesture of greeting, she approached her.
“Hi Brigitta! A nightmarish night—again! They must run out of bombers and bombs sooner or later at this rate! Right now, the situation is once again under control, but there is some activity reported south of the Thames, so be ready for anything. Probably still trying to get rid of some of our fighters by drawing them out.”
“Thank you, Susan! Enjoy your rest!”
“Good luck, and… how was that… KBO?”
Brigitta smiled at the popularity of Martha’s revelations (or better, at Churchill’s popularity). “Yes, that’s it! See you later, unless the Luftwaffe decides to visit us directly—again!”.
“As long as they don’t wake me up, I am fine with that!”
Brigitta was an active plotter today. She put on her headset, checked her microphone, took a look at the map checking for news, and picked up her plotting rod, ready to start another day of fighting the fascists.
The usual routine ensued: writing, moving around counters, reporting to officers. Her background noise in her brain started to take the form of hope. Maybe they will not be coming in, if they really bombed London again this night. Maybe it will be a boring day, for once. Susan is right, they must run out of bombers and bombs if they don’t slow down.
Every minute that passed seemed to support her hope, to the point that she even thought What a boring evening at the bar this will be. What was that about “some activity south of the Thames”?
“BANDITS! BANDITS! Sector 6, Angels 15, heading north!”
Oh, THAT would be the answer, I suppose. Brigitta was primed and ready. If she could not fly a plane, she was happy to fight like this, gathering and transmitting information, moving counters as quickly as possible. Squadrons leaving the ground. Pilots communicating. This time, an unfiltered communication was sent directly to her headphones: one of their neighbouring sectors. She’d have to plot it all by herself, or almost.
She would never know if flying fighters was as exciting as this, but the quick rhythm of this job and the contact with the pilots made her feel like she was a part of the battlefield, adrenaline and the sense of being a part of it kicking in.
“Red Leader, Tally-ho! Engaging at Angels 16!"
“Bandits eight o’ clock”
“I am on him”
The sighs and the swearing of the officers around them, the map filling up with counters.
“Ale down. Repeat: Ale down”.
“Bull, engaging at Angels 15”.
Bull. Kurt’s nickname. Despite him being born not in the town of Salzburg but in Zell am See instead, and therefore not a Stierwascher, he decided to identify with the symbol of Salzburg, the bull. Brigitta smiled at the thought of her fighter ace brother, on his way to challenging their father’s fame.
“Splash one”.
“Whooah, Bull. Another one for you!”
“Leave some for us, Bull.”
“Ginger, engaging at Angels 16.”
“Bull, Tally-ho, Angels 15”.
Go, boys, go!
And the show went on and on. Spitfires engaging Messerschmitts and the other way around, sometimes coming to a real conclusion of the duel, sometimes just losing sight of each other.
“Ginger, Tally-ho, bandit broke left!
“Bull. Bandit scarpered”.
"Ginger, taking fire! Evasive!"
"Bandit on my six!"
"Break right! Break right!"
"Multiple contacts, Angels 15 and climbing."
"Red Two, reform on me."
"More bandits incoming, bearing 270!"
"Ginger, clear. Reforming."
"Bull, still with us?"
"Copy that. Reforming on leader."
"Bandit breaking off! Repeat, bandit disengaging!"
"Fox 3, status?"
"All good. Bull, you’re clear, let’s head back."
"—Wait. Contact! High above, Angels 20!"
"New bandit diving in fast! Bearing 340!"
"Who’s he on?!"
"Bull, CHECK SIX!"
I should not jump like that, not in an Operations room, Brigitta told herself. Confused words and codes, then… a pause. Maybe a fraction of a second. Suddenly—a sharp crack over the radio. A grunt. A burst of static, then:
“…ski... Bull down. Repeat, Bull down”.
A few confused transmissions, a plotter’s worst nightmare. “---ailure!” Damn static!
“Bull, eject! Eject!”
“… chute?” Bugger this static!
“… no sign—“ Enough with the damn static!
"Copy that. Splash one bandit, good kill.”
Bull down. The plotting rod removed the counter, as instructed. Brigitta’s fingers hesitated—just for a fraction of a second—before placing it back in its slot. It was her duty, her job, until midday. Note the loss. Report the kill. That was the rule. That was how it went.
And like that, the counter was gone. Just a small, empty space left in its place—insignificant to anyone else, but to her, a black hole on the map. A void where, until a few instants ago, there had been more than a name, more than a position. That counter had stood for nearly every memory she had made on this earth.
She allowed herself this brief moment of lack of discipline by holding on to it for a second, then she removed it all as if it were yet another counter to wipe away from the table.
Brigitta forced her eyes wider, locking them onto the map—wider, wider still. No blinking. No tears. A tremor ran up her forearms, just for a moment, trying to make its way across her tense body, before her muscles locked into place. Then, she commented the moves she had plotted for all of the Ops room to hear.
Down here, moving around counters, reporting, writing. Moving around, reporting, writing.
Up there, rolling, turning, diving.
Doing it all again.
“Dixie down”.
“Bandit destroyed”.
Moving around, reporting, writing.
The boys rolling, turning, diving.
Moving around, reporting, writing, until the Messerschmitts called it a day and all squadrons retired.
Moving around, reporting, writing, until the clock stroke 12:00.
“Hi Brigitta. How is the situation?” said Carol, who was here to relieve her.
“Dogfights. Losses on both sides,” she replied with a strange tone of voice, slightly higher than usual and rather forced, all the time not looking Carol in the eyes. “Now there is nothing to report, but I wish you good luck anyway,” her face a marble mask.
“Brigitta, are you all right?”
“Yes, I am, thank you. I have to go.”
Brigitta stood up and kept avoiding to look anyone in the eyes. She hoped everyone understood that she wanted to be ignored. Royal Observers were already calling in; wing commanders were reporting.
The shiver she had tried to ignore became a tremor that seemed to affect her hands and forearms, and her jaw.
“Brigitta?”
“Brigitta!”
“Von Trapp!”
Brigitta made straight for the door. Tea. Some tea, maybe some porridge. Cinnamon porridge. One of my favourite things.
Paul, a young lieutenant, got a hold of her forearm. “Brigitta? ‘Down’ means nothing. Absolutely nothing. Let’s go to the colonel, and we’ll learn more.”
“I fancy some cinnamon porridge and some tea,” she replied, her facial expression completely blank, her voice still unnaturally high and forced.
“Ok, no problem, we’ll have porridge and tea. Weird combination for lunch, if you ask me. Then we’ll go to the colonel.”
And so Brigitta sat down with Paul as if it were a normal breakfast, except that it was lunch and that Bull was down, his counter in its slot, to stay there until reassigned.
Not much later, in the office of colonel Harris, the phone started ringing. It was as usual: the Home Guard or an ARP Warden calling, either to report their own observation or—more often—to report what the local children had found, or what a mother had seen from her kitchen window. He noted down as much as possible, cross-checking with the information gathered from the OR to speed up the recovery operations.
“Yes, Mrs Potter has seen the plane go down. She says she’s no expert, but it looks like it went straight into the Thames! She concluded with ‘another one down, another poor soul’. She sounded very distraught.”
The colonel put his hands in his hair. The Thames. That is going to be a mess.
“ARP Warden Smith here, Dartford. Plane down immediately outside the town. That was a close one! I tried to reach the pilot to see if he was alive, I got it out just in time. He is now in the hands of the local GP.”
A glimpse of hope here and there. The colonel scratched his eyes, and continued taking notes and making plans for the retrieval.
“Home guard, Southend-on-Sea. Messerschmitt down, we caught the pilot before he could get away. Wounded, of course.”
Another one to eat our food. Could they at least do us the favour of not surviving?
Another ARP Warden from the area. “The children guarantee it’s a Spitfire! They say they recognise all planes; they always watch them!”
So, one of ours for sure. “And what did the children exactly see?”
“Oh, the children watched it all from the lawn as usual. They say, well… they say the ME was a right scoundrel, appeared from the clouds right behind one of the Spits and fired as he tried to turn, and the Spit went down. A motor caught fire, they say. They ran to the point of impact – I honestly don’t want to know how near they were when watching. We told them many times it’s dangerous…”
“So, the kids found the Spit?
“Yes, sir!”
“What about the pilot?”
“The plane broke in two. They found the pilot inside the cockpit. Luckily the burning motor was a different part, so neither the little rascals nor the pilot burned.”
“Is he alive?”
“I fear not, sir. The kids called the Home Guard and the police. Reckless kids, sir, but at least they knew what was to be done. The doctor and the fire brigade arrived as soon as possible.”
“And you said you are the ARP Warden from…”
“I am calling from Longfield. The plane is between Longfield and South Darenth.”
The colonel wiped the sweat from his forehead, exhaled slowly, and picked up his pencil again. “All right, could you please double-check the code on the aircraft for me?”
Brigitta was sitting at the bar, surrounded by people and yet alone, isolated in her head. She sometimes nodded here and there to avoid the usual “Brigitta, are you listening?” “Are you here with us?” “You’ll see, he will pop up somewhere!” “They just need time to gather all the information. So many Spits and Mes down this morning!”
And that was how colonel Harris found her, posture rigid, eyes wide open, trying to blend in while sticking out because of her total dissociation from the crowd.
What a bloody mess. Why was this young woman accepted when her brother was a pilot, a Spitfire pilot, for God’s sake? Did no one consider this? That this could happen?
“Leading Aircraftwoman Von Trapp, come on. Prepare your bag and rucksack. We are heading for Kent.”
One of the imbeciles with a beer in his hand, a Yank volunteer, commented: “See? He is in Kent, no doubt trying to seduce some poor wife left at home alone or something. You von Trapps and your damn good looks!”
Why do these idiots never shut up? Harris clenched his jaw. He didn’t have time for this, so he ignored the Yank lad and checked whether Leading Aircraftwoman von Trapp was coming or not.
She was. Not a word from her. He had to admit, she had balls. She had finished her shift without a single complaint, then she had gone to eat and then she had waited, no scenes, no nonsense.
Harris added: “Von Trapp’s on duty with me outside the base; we might be away for 2 or 3 days. All leaves are cancelled until we have sorted out the mess of these days; the staff is already rearranging the shifts and the rosters. You might as well thank us: it’s no time to go carousing around London.”
As soon as Leading Aircraftwoman von Trapp had reached him, always in a dignified silence and a rather aristocratic posture, he addressed her.
“So, Biggin Hill just called. Can you confirm that Flying Officer Kurt von Trapp is your brother?”
“Yes, sir.” Quick reply, cold, efficient.
“He went down this morning. I know you were on duty when it happened.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“So, you already know he went down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We are now heading to Longfield, Kent. His plane was identified and located there from his code.”
His plane.
“It goes without saying that, if it was his plane, it most likely was him inside the cockpit. But the law tells us someone has to sign a form that says that someone near to the deceased positively identified him. Apparently, the dog tag is useless. You being WAAF and an engineer makes it all much easier and quicker for us in this specific moment. No secrets to be hidden, no long procedures, no long chains of command about who calls or sends a telegram. We can take you to both the relict and the body and get your input on the report too. The Air Ministry will take care of the wreckage, maybe they will still send a telegram, but that’s it. It is not clear whether the salvage team is already there, or will be there by the time we arrive, or will arrive tomorrow. We need more men, that much is sure.”
No “I am sorry to report to you that your brother, only a year older than you, died in a plane crash following a dogfight.” No “Sadly, your brother, the one you have always been closest to, is deceased, shut down by someone who might as well have been one of his classmates from Austria. My condolences.” Just a plot waiting in its slot, until she signed the form that declared him “identified as Flying Officer Kurt von Trapp”.
Brigitta inhaled loudly, and then replied: “I understand, sir.”
Harris admired the young woman’s strength, although he could see how rigid she was. Must be the Austrian brand of “stiff upper lip” attitude. “I will wait for you near the exit in my car. Be quick, take only what you need.”
Brigitta crossed paths with Patty again, the latter being worried for her friend. She didn’t have much time to tackle the issue, though, because Brigitta promptly asked her in her unnatural voice, only a little bit of trembling marring her poised enunciation: “Do you have a spare black hair ribbon I could borrow?”
“Oh, Brigitta… I am so, so sorry!“
At least, she returned the warm and tight hug Patricia so willingly offered, but it was a quick acknowledgement of her affection for both Kurt and Patricia, soon replaced again by her stoic attitude. “I really have to go now, or I will be sorrier if Harris gets mad at me.”
“I should think he would cut you some slack right now. Here, you can have this ribbon. Where are you going?”
“Kent.”
“Godspeed, dearie. We will be all waiting here for you. We love you!”
The colonel’s Standard Flying 12 made for most of the conversation in the beginning, with its sharp, clattering roar—a halfway point between a staccato clank and a percussive bellow.
Breaking the ice, Colonel Harris said: “We are now getting onto the North Circular. We should stay away from the rubble, debris, and most of the disruption this way, at least until we get to the East End. Now, I cannot stay away from a Messerschmitt if it decides not to stay away from our shores, but we should try to avoid being blocked by ruins and rubble. I would love to get there before dark, but it’s late already. And with the dark, come the bombers.”
Brigitta nodded. “We’ll see how it goes, sir.” Outside, looking from the window, most of the landscape did not bear many signs of what was going on, except for the odd building hit by some lonesome bomb. Semi-detached houses here, a house there, But words like “East End”, “docks”, “Thames” heralded different views.
No escaping that. North Circular to Kent. That was the plan.
Harris had been curious for a while about this aristocratic Austrian refugee who had volunteered, and his sudden urge of curiosity, triggered by the day’s happenings, suited the current need for some conversation rather well. “Von Trapp, I seem to have heard that there are many of you siblings, am I right?”
“Yes, sir. There is eleven of us.” Harris noted how she used the present tense with no hesitation.
“Eleven! That’s a good number! Are you among the oldest ones?”
“More like in the middle, sir, I would say. The oldest one, Liesl, is the Countess of Aldbury…”
“Your sister is the Countess of Aldbury?
“Yes, sir. Then there is Friedrich. He is a doctor, and volunteered as an RMO in the infantry.”
“So, three of you serving?”
“Oh, no sir, there is more. The Countess herself supports the Earl’s efforts and leads all kinds of charitable engagement for women. Then there is Louisa, the third oldest. She is a civilian doctor attached to the RAMC. She volunteered too. Then comes Kurt. He volunteered immediately in September ’39 along with Friedrich and myself, but he chose the RAF to be able to put his hands on mechanical parts. And, I add, because we are addicted to speed, from driving. We both graduated as engineers at the Technical University in Vienna, you know. We are only a year apart.”
As a sort of homage to the siblings, or as poetic justice, they passed the odd Humber Snipe, a nice model covered in camo paint, probably some fellow sitting higher than him in command. Maybe going to do some official business somewhere in the other direction. “So, you are a year younger than him?” Harris indulged her, and spoke in the present tense too.
“Yes, sir. After me comes Martha. She is one of the secretaries and translators of the War Cabinet, so you might say she is doing her part too. Then there is Gretl, well, Margarethe. She volunteered this year, she is Wrens. She said ‘Someone has to go in the Navy, or Papa will be disappointed!’ Our father was Lieutenant Commander. U-Boot first, and then commander of the submarine base of Cattaro during the last war. For Austria, of course.”
“I am frankly disappointed he did not volunteer too, at this point.”
“Well, Mama would never let him go back into service, and we would be against it too, but he is a civilian consultant for the Navy. Has been sporadically since the Twenties, regularly from the day we arrived from Austria. He has been keeping shares in several shipping and sailing companies as well as working as a consultant for years, all the while managing our estate in Salzburg. Although it’s funny… for a while, he would have never uttered the words ‘I am working as…’… you know, old aristocracy hangover, ‘we do not dirty our hands’… priceless coming from him! And Henry and Liesl, I mean, the Earl and the Countess, do plenty of work too, what between the earldom, the House of Lords, the war effort!”
Harris did not know what to say. It was true: some peers worked, served, but some others kept to the old ways. Apparently, the Trapps and Haverstones were of a different ilk from the latter. Maybe you would find one of them working on a military truck like the one they were passing now, carrying who knows what, the tarpaulin hiding its secrets.
“Then there is the four youngest: Anna, Florian, Karoline and Thomas, but they are children. Florian does say he want to volunteer too, but I hope the war is over by the time he is old enough.”
“How old is the young rascal?”
“He is ten, sir,” she said with a smile. “Anna is twelve, but she would say ‘almost thirteen’, since she was born in February. Karoline is eight, and our baby Thomas is five. Probably the most cuddled boy of the world.” Which reminded Brigitta of something. “He is going to take… it… hard, and Florian too. They adored their ace brother. They adore Friedrich too, of course, but you can imagine how powerful the image of a cocky fighter ace can be to young boys as compared to a mere medical officer in the infantry. And Kurt has always been… louder, and more exuberant too. Always demonstrative.”
“That’s some sad business. But the whole country is united in this. I spend my days tracking crashes in our sectors. All of those crashes, enemy ones included, is mostly a young man who will never come back from the war, or who might come back maimed in body or spirit.”
“I know, sir. Even my father lost his brother in the last war. Galicia, Eastern front.”
“It seems to me that you are an exceptional family.”
“We definitely are!”
“No interesting tales about your mother?”
“Oh, well, it’s mothers, actually, and yes, we have. You see, the older seven of us are from our father’s first marriage to Agathe Whitehead, Austrian aristocracy from her mother’s side and, well, on her father’s side she was the granddaughter of Robert Whitehead, whom you probably know all about…”
“The inventor of the torpedo?”
“Yes! Well, my mother Agathe sadly died during the 1922 scarlet fever epidemic in the town we were living in. In 1926, as we were living in Salzburg, we got a new governess, a young and beautiful teacher who wanted to be a nun…”
Harris’s eyebrows arched upwards impossibly.
“…well, I would love to say ‘until she met Father’, but we all know, because she never lets him forget it, she loved us children first! Of course, she fell in love with Papa too, but in the beginning… he was a little bit difficult. He had been heartbroken and had decided to mask his grief with discipline and, sadly, he had distanced himself from us. He never sent us to boarding school, or things like that, but he was seldom the warm father we remembered, except when one of us was ill. Well, Mama Maria—at the time just Miss Maria—set him straight! Oh, that she did!”
“So, your… new mother? Stepmother?”
“New mother, yes!”
“She made your father fall in love with her by arguing with him about you children?”
“Oh, now that I am an adult too, I can tell you… I suppose Papa appreciated a woman with strong opinions and no fear of expressing them, and definitely loved that she loved us unreservedly from the beginning, but they really fell in love, the… whole package, you know?”
Harris, not exactly a romantic, could not help thinking of especially one reason why a beautiful and young almost-nun in the house of a grieving widower would end up married to said widower… but then again, even if the woman had been seduced, Leading Aircraftwoman Brigitta von Trapp seemed to believe the two did fall in love and were blissfully happy. She said the whole package. Sometimes, the bedroom is the way to the heart. He had seen it happen. “Yes, I understand,” he forced himself to comment, but no one would have been convinced of his honesty
“Well, our new mother Maria is a force of nature! She has been Papa’s partner in everything, she was the only one who really understood all the political developments we were going through, as opposed to Papa who often interpreted everything from the point of view of a nostalgic patriot and war hero…”
“Wait a minute, your father is… now I remember… is that the chap who sank God knows how many ships in the Mediterranean? Now I know why your name was so familiar! I served in the last war, too.”
“Georg von Trapp, pluri-decorated war hero of Austria-Hungary! That’s right, sir! 13 between submarines and ships! Friedrich and Kurt can recite all the ships and the tonnage stuff by heart. I have always been more interested about the logistics and strategy.” Harris’s curiosity had long turned into fascination, a growing fascination. “Anyway, as I said previously, Mama openly prohibited Papa from re-entering active service, because she could not stand the separation or a prospective widowhood. Not that she needed to: my father does not want to leave our four little ones without a parent. We have already been through that. We older siblings did need to order them to evacuate both with our youngest children, though. Somehow, Father wanted to go back and forth from Surrey to London. What a stupid idea. As you can imagine, we are all very protective of them. Oh, and mother did say that if she had neither young children nor a husband, she would love to operate an anti-aircraft gun!” Brigitta accompanied the revelation with a sincere laugh. “Alas, she settled for making bandages and sewing clothing. Liesl, the Countess, got her into that.”
On their right side, a few blitzed corners of London seemed to issue a comment, a statement on Mrs von Trapp’s calling, both the missed one and the chosen one. Callings that were sorely needed, at that time.
“Your family is rather fascinating. I regret not being able to get to know them. I remember seeing your brother a few times, his visits always accompanied by excessive excitement, especially in the female department…”
Brigitta, animated by the merry recounting, sobered up. “Sir, you…” she inhaled loudly “… you are welcome to the funeral, if Command allows you, or even in an official capacity.”
“Thank you, von Trapp, but I fear right now it is not the time to play the gentleman officer who attends social events, merry or mournful may they be. I am needed at my desk all the time. I swear they will ask me to perform even after I have died, until someone takes over.” He did not immediately realise his faux-pas. Damn it, that was a stupid comment.
“Anyway, you would be welcome.”
“Do you think you can get the entire family to attend the funeral?” Between the threat from aerial warfare and rationing, not to mention some of the siblings serving, he could not envision the entire clan gathered.
“Oh, yes, definitely, why not? Even Friedrich is stationed in London. He was wounded at Dunkirk, so he was on leave for a while; now he serves at his old hospital, Barts, until reassigned.”
Harris reflected on how the family must be privileged, what between their own background and the ties to Aldbury. Of course, they would have the resources to gather the family and to bury the young man as they wish! Worst case scenario, a phone call from the Earl might bring the desired results!
Under Brigitta’s stony face, a hint of mourning masked as a pensive attitude emerged. Ending their conversation on a sad note had been a side effect of his bout of curiosity.
The landscape had grown increasingly darker too as they approached the East End: blitzed buildings becoming almost a constant, craters, people crossing the street with carts heading for the country. This had slowed down their journey, and of course it was almost dark by the time they reached the infamous East End.
There was no way they would reach Kent before the morning.
Unknowingly to both Harris and Brigitta, or at least all against their sincerest hopes, there was also no way the Luftwaffe would stay away from London. The streets were already filled with the reminders of the Huns’ unexpected and unwanted visits: craters and roadblocks on the Circular itself, impassable side streets surrounding them. The dimmed headlights of the car were rendered almost useless by blackout regulations, and the sounds and lights of the anti-aircraft artillery already made their presence known.
It was only a matter of time, or maybe of luck. But they had to stop.
Harris saw a church, the car going so slow that he was able to recognise the shape and the spire, and turned right. “We might park the car by that church. I don’t fancy having it blown to smithereens by the Huns.”
“Who says the Jerries will not drop a few bombs on the church? It’s right next to the Circular. It’s a main road. It is practically an invitation, sir. If it has not been hit, it is even more likely it will be hit. Basic strategy, you know, and logistics.”
“Is that your degree?”
“Yes, sir.”
An Air Warden was standing in front of the church, the entrance to a shelter visible on the right side of the church. Rolling down the window, the rumble of the approaching raid grew stronger, nearer, more concrete.
“Hello, sir,” the Air Warden said.
“Hello. It looks like we’ll spend the night here.”
“I would not dare to criticise your taste, sir, but if it were me, I would have chosen a nice place in the country.”
“That was the original plan.”
“I understand, sir,” the warden said with some sadness in his voice. “So, of course you are welcome to join the community here, but if I were you… Ruskin Arms is just down the way. Got a roof, beer, and a cellar if Jerry gets close—and I’ll bet it will get close. Cannot stay away, Jerry, pity it’s not a fair maid. Anyway, there is a backyard with a sturdy wall for your car.”
“Ruskin Arms, you say?”
“Yes, sir. Nice watering hole. Oh, I beg your pardon, miss… madam…” he added upon noticing Brigitta’s head emerging next to Harris’s shoulder.
“The lady’s in the service. She has heard worse, believe me. So, where is this place?
“On High Street, sir. Turn left here, then try to keep your direction straight, and turn right onto High Street as soon as you reach it. Classical timbered Victorian pub, if it helps. Will be tricky to cross the tracks, or what is left of them, but we all manage, somehow. Probably half a mile till there.”
And so, the two headed for the local pub, windows rolled down to gather as much information through sounds as possible.
The Ruskin Arms façade loomed in the blackout like a stubborn relic that refused to give in. A sturdy, two-story front with oriel windows—a flicker through the blackout curtains. Harris hurried to the backyard, parked the car as near to the wall as possible, and shut down the motor. Helmets dangling from their satchels, they made their way to the entrance, stepping on broken glass.
Inside, the place was all wood panelling and tobacco-stained air, a mix of dockers, barmaids, a jittery ARP warden nursing a pint here, a cockier ARP warden entertaining at the bar: “I bet this place will survive unscathed…,” he was preaching with a pint in his hand.
The arrival of the two uniformed shapes caused the warden to stop in his tracks, and the rest of the clientele to stare at them, some of them turning to whispering.
A poorly disguised “What’s the RAF doing slumming it here?” reached their ears. Brigitta suddenly wished for her mother, the only one who might be able to explain to her why their presence seemed to be so… unwanted? Harris, on the other hand, knew perfectly well that this was not exactly the flag-waving part of London. Their smooth, clean uniforms were a striking contrast to the working-class attire of the patronage, and made many of the bystanders fear that there might soon be orders, trouble, or a simple disturbance of the mood (which had already been accomplished, in a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy).
Harris, a rather practical man, tackled the situation. To Brigitta, he said: “I would definitely avoid any jokes about warm beer and cold lager, here. Not the appropriate ice-breaker” Then, to the bartender, “Evening, gents! I don’t suppose Jerry’s blown the stout to bits yet?”
A cheeky docker sitting on a stool near the bar said: “What’s your sort doing here?”
“We were heading for Kent.”
“Going to a fancy retreat, are ya? Got lost near the docks? This is no place to court your bird round here!”
Harris chose to ignore that one. The bartender, seeing the potential for revenue before some form of hell broke loose, asked: “So, stout? Two pints?”
“Yes, please,” they both confirmed.
A few mocking “Yes, please”, trying to imitate their enunciation, could be heard.
Of course, in a new ironic twist of fate for the day, as soon as Brigitta and the colonel had their pints in their hands, and the bartender his coin, the siren did go off, its macabre whooooOOOAAAAHHHhhh whooooOOOOOOAAAAAHHHhh piercing the sturdy Victorian walls.
“All right, all right, take your pints and head to the cellar. Don’t spill the beer, or I will let you mop it up, mate, and no refunds,” the bartender announced.
The cheeky warden added, before heading out: “And keep the Churchill slagging off down a bit, eh? Wouldn’t want to get charged with treason!” A roaring laughter boomed through the air, covering the sounds of the approaching explosions.
At least I will have other thoughts to keep me company than the ones I feared I would have, thought Brigitta as they were taking their place in the cellar.
She spent the raid either trying to choose a thought that would get her through the night without breaking down, or being the recipient of jokes such as “Couldn’t resist seeing a typical East End raid for yourself, hey, miss?” and “Why the sour face? The old colonel does not suit your fancy? We have Jack here who is looking for a sweetheart! Young and strong!”
Harris either dozed off or ignored the people stoically. The explosions of the raid hit differently than when Bentley Priory had been attacked, for some reason, and she knew she probably would not sleep much. Maybe because she was forced to sit passively?
Nevertheless, she must have fallen asleep at a certain point, because she was awakened by the cheeky warden. “It’s almost morning, miss.”
She woke up, even more disorientated than usual, then noticed several women and even a few men waking up too.
The warden announced loudly: “You slept through a good part of the raid and through the all clear. I figured there was no need to wake up everyone. If someone of your friends is missing, it’s because we drafted them to help. Ilford and Stratford, this time. I sent as many people as possible to Ilford. They will be coming back as soon as possible. There is some breakfast upstairs, if you fancy it.”
Brigitta reflected about how she didn’t know enough swearwords for such an awakening and a situation. Still in London, the streets probably even worse than yesterday, Harris shovelling and moving rubble God knew where, her body (her neck especially) hurting like hell, and who knew if they still had a car (where were Ilford and Stratford?)
Oh, and Kurt, lying somewhere in the cold, waiting for her to remove any doubt about his identity. On the day of her twenty-fourth birthday.
Shit shit shit didn’t even begin to cover it.
At least, Harris emerged not too long after, picking up some of the leftovers from the previous evening as a replacement for breakfast. “We have been looking for survivors in Ilford. We got some of them out,” said Harris, his dusty helmet on the counter. “Sad, sad business, pulling them up, or watching them try to save a few belongings from the rubble.” Harris looked deep in thought for a while. He then commanded, “Hurry up. As soon as there is enough light, I want to be on our way.”
Duty. Duty calls.
The outside was not particularly damaged, the pub and its surrounding left unscathed except for the usual shattered glasses here and there, blasts and all.
The rest of the streets they travelled on, however… the air thick with dust, smoke still rising here and there, even more disruption, the crossing of the Thames a difficult feat due to the targeted attack to the docks.
Reaching the first country road in Kent felt almost surreal, the green meadows and the low walls painting an idyllic picture.
Her heart jumped at the sight of several tarpaulins in a beautiful green meadow on the right, a policeman presumably standing guard. She fought the emotions that wanted to come out, screaming at her you know what that is. Shortly after that, a sign announced “Longfield”.
She didn’t really notice Harris making their way through Longfield and parking the car in front of the local morgue.
“Von Trapp, it’s time.” For the first time, the colonel sounded almost like her father.
Her father. She would have to call him, unless… unless… the last glimpse of hope still burning inside her. Maybe it’s all a huge misunderstanding, an epochal mix-up…
“Von Trapp, come on. I know it’s hard, but it has to be done. Would you like to stretch your legs a little bit first?”
“Maybe just a few steps around the building, thanks, sir.”
Brigitta tried to gather her thoughts and her strength with a few brisk steps around the building, inhaling the Kent air deeply, only to come to the conclusion that, whatever was inside that morgue, it was already in there. It had already happened. So, the sooner, the better. Stretching it along was a temptation, to postpone the moment of truth, but for what? So, she turned back and headed straight to the entrance, where Harris was conversing with a wiry constable, the signs of a sleepless night on his face and on his rumpled clothing. The customary cigarette had already found its place in the hands of both, glowing.
“Morning, miss,” said the constable, who then was at a loss about how to continue, knowing that she was not just here on RAF business, but also as the—alleged—sister of the deceased.
“Good morning, sir.” A good morning? I’m not so sure about that.
Harris saved the constable. “Von Trapp, let’s go in.”
She was led to a cold, tiled room with a table covered with a sheet. “Miss, when you are ready…” offered the constable.
“Is anyone ever?”
The constable was not philosophically inclined, but tried his best for the young woman who was, most likely, going to be in tears in a matter of seconds. He fumbled with his helmet’s strap, avoiding her eyes. “Be strong, miss.” And with that, he peeled back the sheet, slow and steady.
She first saw the boots, standard RAF issue boots that meant nothing, absolutely nothing; singed by fire, leather split from heat.
When her gaze reached the trousers, she said nothing to prove it’s him. The blue-grey trousers hung in charred tatters below the knees, unburned above. With the trousers, she saw the gloved hands, the fingers curled in both hands.
She continued, following the folds of the sheepskin jacket, which only had a few marks left by fire on the lower rim. The left arm looked unnaturally twisted, bent wrong at the elbow. Higher up, a darker stain spread—rust-red, not soot. Blood.
She froze at the chest. The dog tag was gone, but a few jagged holes pierced the jacket’s left side between jaw and chest, fabric frayed around it. Shot. Her breath hitched. The shirt confirmed what the jacket had already told her. She brushed the lapels of the jacket away and noticed the blood on the shirt and the tie between neck and shoulder, and the gunshot wounds on the neck.
The face… he still had the goggles on. She tried to ignore the angle at which the head seemed to tilt.
“Do you need to take photos… for the police? Or may I…” and she gestured to the goggles.
“Feel free to remove all you need, miss. We already took off the tag. Useless, miss—bullet tore through it. Took it off for the report.”
She inhaled deeply and steeled herself, then reached for the goggles, which came off easily. She took note of the first touch to his skin—cold, eerily cold, as cold as the snow at the Erlhof when they were children.
She took a good look at the face, and she could honestly not say for certain “This is Kurt” or “This is just someone who looks like him”. She blamed herself for not insisting they call either Louisa or Friedrich, who might know exactly what death does to a person’s face. The face looked enough like Kurt—she knew his features, she noticed the shape and colour of the eyebrows—but it was the face of a pilot after a crash, carrying the signs of whatever had happened, not his handsome smiling face—a perfect blend of their father, mostly, and their mother Agathe that made all the girls swoon. Despite a rather peaceful appearance, something made it feel all wrong, or not right enough.
She knew what she had to do next. Three things, her scientifically oriented mind suggested.
She slowly removed the helmet to free the hair.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence, someone with the same hair. Soft, straight hair who had only in his later years turned a soft rust colour, a vague echo of their mother Agathe’s reddish brown.
She then reached for his left eyelid. It was stiff, at first, and she remembered the term rigor mortis. Another attempt, a flying thought, maybe he is another chap, and if I tear his eyelid the family might not be happy with me, and then the eyelid gave way.
The eye seemed to be the right colour, Agathe’s beautiful aquamarine green, but it was so clouded over, dull and lifeless, that she hesitated. She repeated the procedure with the right eye.
Finally, she reached for his jacket, She reached for the left inner pocket, stopping for a second when she felt the stash of paper that was hidden in there.
It was there.
The picture of the family Henry had taken when they all reunited here in England in ‘38. Mama had wanted a photo with the entire family, finally including Thomas, who hadn’t been born yet when Liesl had married. Their parents were sitting in the middle, Liesl held Thomas tenderly and stood behind Anna, a hand on her shoulder. The rest of them was scattered around them, the younger ones sitting, the older ones in the back. All of them smiling, happy to be together, far away from Hitler.
Everyone had wanted a copy, of course.
They would never be able to take a picture like that anymore.
Ignoring her trembling hands and forearms, she announced in her best imitation of a BBC speaker or of a herald, “It is indeed my brother, RAF Flying Officer Kurt von Trapp.” She paused for a few seconds, tenderly caressing his left cheek—cold, still—the only license she would grant herself, moving his soft hair aside only to watch it bounce back to his forehead as it always did, then continued, “Do you need me to sign something?”
Both colonel Harris and the constable, who had watched it all in religious silence, their sympathy for the brave young woman growing minute by minute, handed her two forms.
The constable spoke first. “This is for our local administration, miss.” The form was already partially filled. She could recognise two handwritings, probably the constable himself and a doctor.
She scanned it.
A coat of arms. Kent whatever-who-cares. Registration district…
Date and place of death: second October 1940 (approx. 11:10 AM – crash observed by locals, pilot dead at my arrival followed an unreadable signature. Reading that was a blow to her chest.
Name and surname. She filled it in dutifully. Kurt von Trapp.
Date and place of birth. “Do you mind if I just write it in numbers?”
“Don’t worry, miss. The registrar will issue the death certificate as he deems fit.”
18/03/1915, Zell am See, Land Salzburg, Austria, she added.
Occupation and usual address. “What should I put in as street address? My parents’ one in Surrey? We gave up our place in London when we volunteered. Our things are back with them.”
“I think that will be all right, miss.”
She then quickly filled in her own information, signed the statement of identification, confirmed she was the informant, skimmed the other entries, and then stopped at the end of the form.
Cause of death:
Immediate cause: blunt trauma (plane crash)
Consequences: burns (singed legs up to knees); broken arm
Due to: gunshot (exit wounds neck/shoulder left side)
Injury occurred: killed in action, RAF pilot
Certified by and the name of the doctor followed by the signature she had seen above.
She moved back to Kurt, slid his shirt back, and checked again the wounds, which she now knew were called “exit wounds”.
She remembered hearing “New bandit diving in fast!” and “Bull, CHECK SIX!"
With her hand resting on Kurt’s chest, as if it were tired of her sad work, after a slight caress, she said: “So, the enemy fighter must have popped out from behind, from a higher altitude. He must have fired with a slight angle. Maybe Kurt had tried to react to his chum’s warning, ‘check six!’ and turned a little. Maybe the enemy came out of a cloud and surprised the squadron?”
The constable looked confused. “How do you know about a warning?”
Harris filled in for her. “She was in the operations room, she heard it happen unfiltered. As for the rest, that’s what she is here for, to file one of the reports we have to submit. She is an engineer.” Then to Brigitta: “This is the form for the Command. Identification, then copy the medical report from the police form and quote it. Don’t worry too much, though, I will check it and complete what may be missing.”
Duty, duty first.
She gave back the form to Harris, who was looking at her with a warmth in his eyes that she had never seen in the stoic colonel.
Just as she had started to ask herself questions in her head, was it the gunshots or the crash? Or the burning? Will Louisa or Friedrich be able to tell? the constable reminded them: “If we could hurry up to the crash site… the Council has complained, and the salvage team as well as the engineer from the base have arrived yesterday.”
Of course.
As she had guessed, the idyllic meadow just outside Longfield was the crash site, and she wondered if the green of the meadows had been the last thing Kurt had seen before dying of “blunt trauma”, as the GP wrote. She didn’t notice her breath becoming heavier while she lost herself in such questions, but Harris and the constable did.
The police removed the tarpaulins after a short round of introduction among them, the salvage team and the Biggin Hill engineer, and she was back in the present. She was given a notebook and a pen, and was notified that “we have already taken pictures yesterday, miss. The plane when we reached it, the body, everything.”
The plane had torn apart, the motor and propeller separated from the rest, gouged at a weird angle into the damp Kent soil, violating the green idyll of the meadow with the skid marks and the charred rest of what used to be Kurt’s glorious Spitfire. A prop blade was bent like a scythe, and she was reminded of those gothic illustrations of the Grim Reaper they often saw in some of the novels that Liesl had passed down to Louisa and her, those that even their mother Maria refused to read. A fitting imagery for the scene.
Bolts and rivets were strewn across the grass, trailing a black scar leading to the rest of the plane. The cockpit seemed to have skidded or bounced away with it.
Brigitta took note of the gunshot holes on the right side and on the top front of the cockpit, and she tried to concentrate on her job, while the base engineer was apparently adding a few notes to his own report, throwing a few curious looks at her.
She started to draft her report:
Spitfire hit by a Bf 109 from behind/above (prob. 20mm cannon), gunshot holes observed on the right side and on the top of the cockpit. Slight angle: pilot probably reacted to warning, shot mid-turn.
Hypothesis: Probably nose-down or at an angle close to a nosedive, crash at speed (200-300 mph). Crash probably wrenched the front loose (gun might’ve loosened firewall). Engine’s mass drives forward, shearing bolts or ripping rivets at the firewall. The cockpit, lighter, skids or bounces, detaching from the flaming front. Aluminium’s ductile but brittle under sudden force --> the weird angle might have loaded enough energy on the rear to cause it to snap. Legs briefly singed by engine fire. Midair split not likely.
Medical report suggests blunt trauma as cause of death, probably out of habit. Gunshot and death in the air more likely (exit wounds, tag pierced; no reactions heard or noticed). Fire flashing back before the split as probable cause for the leg burns.
Report seems to double-check with OR communications.
The base engineer interrupted her work. “Hey, miss engineer, come and have a look at the inside of the cockpit!”
She approached the cockpit, her notebook still in her hand, watched the five swastikas drawn in chalk—poor Kurt, didn’t have time to add the sixth—then she put the notebook back into her satchel to lean on the cockpit.
The cockpit was a ruin, the Perspex canopy shattered, the rust-red spots still there. She crouched, tracing the throttle with a hand.
The engineer interrupted her musings: “Look, scorch marks around the firewall.”
“Well, that wasn’t a surprise!” she commented, annoyed. Is the guy implying I am unable to write a report?
“I am only curious to hear if your observations align with mine.” Sure. Fire at a Spit crash site. What a stroke of genius.
“And… what the hell is this?” The annoying engineer pried out something, apparently from under the seat—a spark plug, blackened and bent, its porcelain cracked. Not from this plane—too small, too old. Her breath caught. The hex nut, the worn threads—she knew it. Their father’s Steyr XX, in front of their house in Aigen, 1935. Kurt laughing, oil on his shirt, handing her the wrench: “Your turn, Gitti—don’t strip it.” They’d kept that Zündkerze—their first victory, the first time they were able to repair Papa’s car by themselves, together—as a lucky charm. She, for her part, had it on her shelf for a year, and had it now at her bunk.
The pain of it hit her as a blade in the chest, right where her heart was, then dragged downwards to her guts. The wall she’d built—duty, numbers, angles—crumbled. Her knees hit the dirt, the plug clutched in her fist—a hand on her heart, the one with the plug, and the other hand on her belly—and the sob tore free, after a last attempt at blocking it, poorly masked as a gasp. Her voice, her real voice, buried in her chest and throat since yesterday, finally emerged through her moans.
Harris was there in an instant, hand on her shoulder, saying nothing—just letting her break. She barely registered it.
Likewise, she didn’t hear the engineer and the team asking what was wrong, or the police reminding them that “The Council...” and Harris cutting them with “Bugger the Council. It was her brother, for God’s sake! She has been doing her duty non-stop, from the Operations room till now!”
Brigitta’s surroundings swam back into focus when she was back in Longfield, sitting yet again in a pub. The Rose and Crown? The Royal Oak? Something like that? Harris sat near her at a corner table, dust streaking his uniform, once again looking like her father did when worried for one of them. “Von Trapp, you’re having a bloody drink. Stew if you can stomach it, but drink’s non-negotiable, a stiff one or two, end of.” He barked at the barmaid: “Kentish gin, two glasses—none of that watered-down muck.”
The bottle thunked down—cloudy, unlabelled, a wartime knockoff. He poured, neat, no fuss—juniper stench hit like a slap. “Maidstone’s finest, or near enough. Get it down you—patriot’s brew.”
Brigitta eyed the glass, its surface trembling with her hands. Schnaps it wasn’t—none of Salzburg’s warmth, just raw English spite. “Ta, sir. Normally, I would say we’d toast to my birthday.”
“Christ, von Trapp! Is it your birthday? Today?”
She nodded. “Twenty-four. Can you believe it? But the worst’s still coming.”
“Crash report?” Harris said with warmth, his bark once again forgotten.
“No sir. Calling them”
“Oh.” Then to the barmaid: “More,” waving the empty glass.
“I think I will try Louisa first. Maybe she is off duty. She is a doctor, she is the most sensible in the family. Then I will call Henry and Liesl. Liesl is definitely in Hertfordshire; Henry might be in London, not sure about his schedule at the House of Lords. They are sensible, too, and they’ll snag Friedrich’s compassionate leave, and Gretl’s. Friedrich and Nancy, then. Hope they are not both at Barts. Martha’s War Cabinet, London—Henry’ll sort her, too. Mama and Papa last, Surrey, Uncle Frankie’s dower house near Guildford with the young ones. I don’t suppose you sent a telegram to the Command, hey?”
“Absolutely not,” Harris confirmed. The barmaid dumped the bottle with a grunt, matching Harris’s bark. Harris was too busy reflecting on how privileged this family was to notice. ‘I will just call them’ like it’s a bloody tea party.
“So, no telegram on their way for them. A coward’s hope… I almost hoped you did contact the Command and I didn’t have to be the one to call them.”
“Bravest lass in uniform I’ve seen—duty from ops room to now, never flinched. But… Bloody hell, von Trapp. Phones all round, an Earl on the blower, no faffing about? What are you—royalty?”
She forced another sip—gin burned, vile as London dry, no orchard warmth. “Just family. Duty’s not over.” Kurt’s spark plug weighed her pocket, heavier than the drink.
“Reckon you’ll phone better sloshed? If not, now’s your moment—phone’s there. I’ll guard the gin, don’t fret.”
Brigitta fed coins into the slot—threepence clinked—fingers trembling as she dialled, the slow whirring filling the silence. Voice shaking, she said: “Operator, Mile End 2471, please.”
“Bennett Von Trapp speaking,” Louisa answered, knackered but warm. Luck.
“Louisa, it’s Brigitta.”
“Your tone says it, Gitti—what’s wrong?”
A choke escaped. “Oh, God, Lou…”
Louisa inhaled. “Out with it. Ich liebe dich—I’m here.”
“Kurt…” Brigitta’s voice cracked.
Logic clicked for Louisa—four weeks, fighter pilot’s curse. Kurt had survived almost five times that. “How? When?”
“Yesterday morning, Longfield, Kent. Shot down—I heard it live, Ops room. Identified him today—dog tag pierced, plane torn apart.”
“Oh, Gitti—why you?”
“Command sent me—engineer, sister, report. Gunshot, I think—not the crash. GP disagrees.”
“You heard it? Filed a report?” Louisa’s calm frayed.
“Still filing.”
“Christ, Gitti… and on your birthday…” A sob broke through. “what’s next?”
“Liesl next—she’ll sort Henry. And your leave, probably. Leaving tomorrow?”
“Course. You?”
“Surrey after—funeral, compassionate leave. Colonel Harris is on it.”
“Good. Stay out of London—raids, docks. Call if you need me.”
“Ta, Lou. Ich liebe dich.” Crackle cut.
“Operator, Haverstone 132.”
“Haverstone Hall, Earl of Aldbury’s residence. How may I help?”
“Brigitta von Trapp—Countess’s sister. Urgent.”
“Of course. Hold, Miss von Trapp.” A minute’s crackle.
“Brigitta, hi, and happy birthday!” Liesl’s soprano chimed.
“Thank you, Liesl!”
“You sound rough—are you ill?”
“Liesl, sit down.” A hiccup. “Kurt was shot down yesterday—Kent. I heard it, operations room. Identified him today—wreckage, all of it.” Waterworks burst.
“Nooo! Kurt!” Liesl’s scream pierced Haverstone, staff scurrying. “And you… alone in Kent?”
“Harris’s with me—decent sort. Henry in London?”
“Yes—back tomorrow. Need us?”
“Call him—Martha too. Compassionate leave, War Office strings.”
“Done, Gitti. Call anytime—here, London, Louisa. Ich liebe dich!”
“You too. Stay safe.”
“Operator, Hampstead 2882.”
“Von Trapp speaking.”
“Nancy? Brigitta. Glad you’re home.” Her voice was crumbling now.
“Brigitta, what is it?”
“Kurt. Shot down yesterday in Kent. Just identified him.”
A beat. “You are serious?”
“I am. Oh, Christ. I am sorting it all out. Henry should get Friedrich’s leave.”
Nancy sobbed. “Friedrich’s here…”
“Please, tell him. Have to call our parents, then sort out Kurt. The coffin, the hearse. See you in Guildford. Love you!”
“Love you!”
“Operator, Guildford 589.” Dial spun, heart hammering.
“Whitehead Dower House. How may I help?”
“Mrs Hughes, Brigitta.” She pondered her options, and made the most logical choice. “I need to talk to Papa—urgent.”
“Miss von Trapp! I’ll fetch him—Miss Anna’s here—”
“No, sorry, Papa now— I am on duty.”
“At once!” Steps faded. Georg’s stride clicked, grip firm. “Brigitta, what a surprise! How’s my dear girl? Happy birthday, by the way!”
“Papa…” A sob slipped. “Sit—I speak now as both WAAF and daughter.”
Georg sat, steel rising. “Serious, eh? I’m here for each and every one of you, always.”
She shattered. “Yesterday—ops room, Kent dogfight. Kurt, got shot down, killed in action. I removed his counter—identified him, reported the wreck!”
Georg paled, fist crushing paper, an old pain reawakening in his chest. Maria, who had been passing by, gasped nearby. “Details, Brigitta—how?”
“Shot—20mm, right side, midair, I believe. Nosedive, split.”
“You confirmed this?”
“Yes,” she creaked.
“My account covers all needs—bring him home, and yourselves. All of you. Command will comply?”
“Harris ensures compassionate leave. Oh, Papa…”
“You will be here soon, my brave, brave girl!” Georg fought hard the tears. Only a few minutes left, then I can crumble. “Wir lieben dich! Others informed?”
“Louisa, Liesl, Nancy.”
“Of course. Good. Later, then. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye—kiss them.”
Georg replaced the receiver and looked at his wife, her beautiful face betraying the worry and fear that were eating her from the inside out.
“What happened, Georg?”
He rose, put his arm around Maria’s waist and guided her to the divan, then gestured for them to sit down. “Come, my love.”
On the other side of the line, Harris waited with the pilfered bottle. “Gin’s waiting, von Trapp.”
Notes:
• Brigitta’s first grief response (rigidity, formality etc.) was inspired by my own reaction to my biological mother’s death.
• We will see how the rest of the family reacts to the news in the next chapter.
Chapter 33: Never was so much owed by so many to so few
Summary:
The von Trapp family lays their hero to rest. It is a day of grief in all of its forms—from wrenching despair and quiet dignity to respect and a few attempts at humour, as they find a way to survive the pain.
Warning: This chapter contains major plot developments that directly follow the previous chapter. It is strongly advised to read the series in order.
Notes:
Content warning: descriptions of grief; scientific discussion of possible causes of death.
Some parts of Poland used to belong to Austria-Hungary until WWI.
Requiem Aeterna = Eternal Rest (Catholic prayer for the dead.)
The title is a quote from a speech by Churchill, in the shortened form used on a famous war poster featuring aviators. The excerpt in its integral form reads: “The gratitude of every home in our Island, in our Empire, and indeed throughout the world, except in the abodes of the guilty, goes out to the British airmen who, undaunted by odds, unwearied in their constant challenge and mortal danger, are turning the tide of world war by their prowess and by their devotion. Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.”
Aviators fighting in the Battle of Britain and the partially overlapping Blitz will be later be referred to as "The Few", as a reference to this speech.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
3 October 1940, Dower House, Surrey
The divan felt too uncomfortable. Stiff, unyielding —too small for both of them, yet neither moved away. The fire crackled, but the warmth did nothing to touch the cold settling in their bones.
Georg stared into the fire, hands locked, his old Imperial and Royal naval steel fraying. Swallowing was difficult, too difficult. Maria sat beside him, still as glass.
“What happened, Georg?” Her voice trembled, dread rising. “Did something bad happen to Brigitta?”
“Kurt.” A pregnant pause. He swallowed painfully. “Kurt’s gone, Maria.”
Maria’s breath caught. She stared at him, lips parting but no sound escaping. For a moment, she looked like a woman thrown into deep water—weightless, frozen, unsure whether to sink or fight.
Then her eyes widened, unblinking, as if the words had struck her like a physical blow. “No…” The word was barely breathed. Her lips trembled. “No,” she said again, more air than voice. “No. No…” Her head shook, slightly, rhythmically, as if trying to erase what she had heard. “No, no, no—”
Georg stood still, unable to reach her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. His heart cracked open at the sight, but he said nothing—only watched, helpless.
Then she felt like splitting in two, and she doubled over, arms clutching her belly. “NOOOO, not possible…” A wail tore free. Georg’s arms circled her, head on her shoulder—sobs broke from both of them, quiet but deep.
A single, choked sob escaped Maria's throat. Georg didn't need to say another word. His hand reached for hers, and he felt her fingers, cold and trembling, immediately entwine with his. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, a wordless gesture that was all he could offer. In their minds, the memory of the first time they had seen him resurfaced. For Georg, it was coming home from the Adriatic on leave, during the last war, and finally meeting his new son—a beautiful and healthy baby cuddled by everyone—ignoring that another war would take him away twenty-five years later. For Maria, it was upon her arrival at the Villa Trapp, when she saw a chubby-cheeked boy whom she immediately wanted to hug.
Their embraces shifted after a while, when the brunt of the tidings was not as fresh: Georg’s back against the padding, Maria in his arms, head on his right shoulder, both with arms tight around the other.
“How?” Maria’s question boomed in the sitting room.
“Shot down over Kent yesterday. Bullet took him, plane crashed. Brigitta saw him today—that’s why she rang. From Longfield, that’s where they are.”
Another long silence that spoke more than a thousand words, filled only by the sobs of two heartbroken parents, and by the whisper, “Our boy is gone.”
Then Maria found the words. “How did you survive it at all, Agathe dying? I feel like I cannot do it. My mind keeps conjuring the image of that sweet, chubby-cheeked boy I met fourteen years ago… but then comes that ‘never again’. Never again will I welcome him home, hug and kiss him, hear his cheekiness and his affectionate remarks he was so generous with.”
Georg only stroke her head, passing his fingers between her hair.
“Georg, promise me you will never leave me alone.”
“That’s not a promise anyone can make. Hope, hope it’s all we have; hope that we will not die prematurely, that the other children will not die prematurely.”
Maria thought about it. “And faith.”
“I think faith relates more to the afterlife than to our hope that our beloved ones will come home safe.” Another caress to Maria’s blonde mop. “I know I am disappointing you.” Maria found solace in faith, in the idea that Kurt was safe somewhere. Georg found it easier to think about the empty space that their son would leave.
“No, no, Georg, you are not. Maybe that’s the most important thing, in the end. And before that, there is the utmost Commandment we were given, to love. At least Kurt knew he was loved. And he loved us all, in his own expansive way!”
“Especially Brigitta! Poor, brave girl. To be the one to identify him…”
“Must have been hard. Then again, every single day, parents, spouses, children all around the world lose someone, and sometimes they are not even afforded the luxury of seeing them one last time, or to have a grave to bring flowers to. It doesn’t make it better, this terrible pain, but the Lord would want us to acknowledge that we should be thankful for this little grace we were granted.”
“Yes…, “ trailed Georg.
“What is it?”
After a sigh, Georg explained. “I feel the weight of my responsibility. Both Friedrich and Kurt wanted so desperately to prove themselves. You have noticed first how desperately they wanted to be like me as boys. But Friedrich… he has always been more… restrained, capable of drawing lines. You know that Nancy calls him Dr Very Proper. Kurt… never did things in halves. His love for his family, for mechanics, for speed… You heard him joking about how he would soon pass me as ace… Maria, his chances of surviving have never been high, you know. Even worse than the submarines we commanded… those young pilots go down in a few weeks.”
“I remember very well our conversations with them last year. There was nothing we could have done to stop them from volunteering. Nothing at all.”
“I will always wonder, though…”
“It wasn’t your fault, Georg. If it weren’t for Hitler, he would be walking in, at our home in Salzburg, announcing his last professional success, or maybe his wedding.”
The sad logistics of Kurt’s loss in the hands of Brigitta and the RAF, the couple acknowledged it was time to tell the youngest children—just come home from school—once they had recomposed themselves a little and found the strength.
They stood together in front of them, Maria struggling to find words that would respect at the same time Anna’s claims of maturity —justified or not—Florian and Karoline’s understanding, and little Thomas’s innocence.
“Children, something has happened to Kurt. It’s all this war’s fault. You understand it, right?”
“Was he caught in an air raid?” Karoline asked. “Like we were? But there was no shelter?”
“Something like that, love. You know he had his airplane, his Spitfire, right?” At this point, Anna had already guessed what would be her mother’s next words, the dire realisation already showing on her youthful face. “He fell down. He is gone.”
Florian’s fists clenched. His jaw tightened. “Gone? Gone where?!” His voice cracked with frustration. “He is dead, you mean.”
Georg intervened: “That’s not how we talk to each other in this house.”
“Tommy will have to learn how to speak properly, sooner or later. Kurt is dead. Not gone—dead. He is not coming back.”
Georg pressed on, “I said I don’t want to hear you speaking with that tone.” But Maria intervened, trying to soften the blow, recognising the boy’s underlying rage: “Florian, please don’t use that tone. And yes, Kurt is dead, I am sorry. I understand it is hard for you, for us all. I understand that you feel angry – you have been through so much these two years, when you should have been playing unencumbered on our lawn in Austria…”
“Hitler’s fault again. This cursed war.” A subtle weeping Anna interrupted her mother. She tried to wipe her tears away as Liesl would have done—elegantly, with composure—but she was shaking in grief and pain.
And then, surprisingly, Karoline left everyone at a loss for words, despite the tears that had come down her cheeks in silence. “This means he is now with Agathe, right? Kurt was good, he must be with her in paradise now. Or we can all pray together, so that he does go to her. Although we are going to miss him so much.”
Thomas, in his own, sweet innocence, agreed. “He is with Agathe! I am a little sad, because it means I will not see him for a long time, but they must be happy to be together! They didn’t see each other for so long!”
Maria, her tears running again down her cheeks, envied the clarity of a child’s faith—the certainty that love could not be broken, even by death, and the centrality of love, even amidst grief. She and Georg had needed so many words to get to this point, whereas Karoline and Thomas had gotten to it immediately.
Georg prayed Kurt hadn’t inherited his own youthful foolishness, not too much of it, at least. He hoped God would be merciful, and Agathe would be with him soon.
Thanks to Henry’s pull and the WRNS’s lean chain, Gretl hopped off the 6:47 from Portsmouth at Guildford—Wren blues creased from the crush, kitbag thumping her hip, her old Austrian rucksack on her back, a black ribbon on her left arm. Dusk draped the platform, blackout lamps a faint flicker.
She flashed a grin at the servicemen by the exit, pushing away the gnawing ache that had settled in her chest along the ride. Not now. Not yet.
“Room for a Wren to Bramley way? Whitehead Dower House—family’s waiting.”
A naval lad tipped his cap—“Climb in, miss”—and the lorry rattled her four miles south.
“I’d hike it any day,” she quipped, green eyes catching the gloom—Kurt’s very same eyes—“but Jerry’s humming tonight.”
By 7:20, Dower House loomed. Homecoming should be sweet, she thought, shoving the door wide.
The sitting room was dim, the fireplace reduced to embers, a single candle burning on the mantel. Her father was leading the Rosary, her mother next to him, both facing the door. Their voices were steady but grief-laden.
Gretl stopped in the hall, watching. She should step in, announce herself—but something held her there. The rhythm of the prayer, the way Florian’s voice faltered at nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, “now and at the hour of our death”. The way Anna, older and stronger, picked up where he stumbled.
Karoline’s responses were clearer, unwavering, but Thomas—Thomas sat silent, clutching Kurt’s toy Spitfire, his fingers tight around it, as if holding his brother in his grasp.
Gretl swallowed hard.
Then, in the low candlelight, her father saw her. His voice caught mid-prayer—just for a second—but he pressed on. Maria’s breath hitched. The words of the Rosary stumbled, then faded into silence as Georg and Maria stood abruptly.
Gretl stepped forward, only just realizing she’d been frozen in place.
She barely had time to breathe out “Papa” before her father wrapped her in his arms. Not a word, just warmth, the deep and steady kind. He pulled back just slightly, taking in her uniform—the proud blue, the naval cut—torn between pride and a new, gut-wrenching fear.
Maria was next, hands cradling Gretl’s face, brushing back her hair as if checking for missing pieces. A kiss on the forehead, a whispered “You’re home.”
Then the others. Anna, in her best imitation of Liesl but with grief marking her face. Florian—trembling. She knelt down for Karoline, for Tommy.
Tommy, Spitfire in hand, looked up solemnly.
“Kurt is now with Agathe.”
And Gretl finally let the tears go.
They retired to their room in silence, after putting the children to bed—even Gretl, who gladly shared a room with Anna and Karo.
Georg simply opened his arms as they laid down on the bed, and Maria wordlessly accepted the invitation, her hands clutching at his strong shoulders, his shirt suddenly wet where her head was leaning. His body was soon wracked with a silent, shaking sob that she felt through his embrace. They didn’t talk much; they didn’t do much more than just staying in each other’s arms. Only once Maria did speak: “We have to believe that Agathe has already taken him into her arms.” Georg simply nodded and agreed. “She would hurry to do just that.”
They had been warned: dire days would come. But they had built enough to face them together. It didn’t make the terrible pain any less, but it gave them hope for the future, for the children who still lived.
And yet, they would have to plan a future without Kurt, without his fire and his hunger for affection, without his hair always falling across his forehead that Maria had loved to fix since he was a little boy. It took a lot of courage, and they would have to find it.
4 October 1940, Surrey
It felt surreal, to pick up a receiver or a pen to make arrangements when all one wanted to do was to be left alone to deal with one’s own loss and pain.
And yet there was much to be done. Yesterday’s phone calls had established that, most likely, today the remaining children and their spouses would arrive. An educated guess hinted at the hearse arriving too, probably some RAF representatives in tow. The funeral was arranged for the morrow: the war took a toll on everyone, leaves were as rationed as the rest, and bodies piled up quickly.
Georg volunteered to ride his bicycle to arrange for the memorial cards, then pass by St Joseph to discuss details. Frankie, as the owner of the estate and the uncle, accompanied him. Both already wore black. Both knew they needed to spare petrol for urgent funeral logistics. Maria and Eileen took care of arranging for mourning at both the house and the Dower House, and looked after the children together at the Dower House, waiting for the first arrivals.
The Bishop, Monsignor Amigo, had not been easy to track down, but he had granted what they needed: permission to open a small private burial ground on the Whiteheads’ estate, consecrated for them. It was agreed that even Georg and Maria would be buried there, next to their beloved son, next to each other. Such a decision spoke volumes. Surrey, not Salzburg, not Austria. Any child or relative of theirs was also welcome to opt for burial there, but the couple preferred not to linger on that thought. Welcoming Kurt’s coffin was already going to be painful enough to last for a while, as Gromi had predicted so long ago.
Maria, Gretl, Eileen, and Anna worked with Mrs Hughes to set up one of the sitting rooms for the wake. They received a visit by the Home Guard, which offered to come both at the church exit and at the burial for a volley of rifle shots both times. Henry’s long hand, obviously, since they hadn’t contacted anyone yet.
She noticed how the children looked at the militia men. Karoline and Thomas’s sadness was there, but there was the serenity gifted by their age; but when Maria looked at Florian, so tense and full of rage, not just pain, she felt her pain multiply. He lacked Anna’s willingness to become a “proper lady” like Liesl, something that clearly steeled her daughter and gave her purpose in her grief. And he was two years younger. Only ten. A huge difference at that age.
Then they heard an engine. Henry’s Bentley, with Henry himself, Liesl, and Martha, all the coupons they could find, and the faces of grief piled up on the enormous load put on them by their public roles. Eyes wide with disbelief, and rimmed red all of them.
Their tight and desperate hugs were accompanied by very few words. Not even the loquacious Henry spoke much.
“I picked Elisabeth up in Hertfordshire as soon as I could, after retrieving Martha from the War Rooms.” What he left unsaid was that the Haverstone Hall staff had contacted him to tell him how the Countess needed him near her urgently, and that he had bribed his way to enough petrol to manage both the mad ride to Hertfordshire and the one to Surrey. But they could all infer that. Martha brought condolences from Sir Winston, Mr Attlee, and all the politicians they had crossed so far, and tried to mask her pain like that, silent tears streaking her cheeks as she reported. Liesl simply sobbed the names of all those she hugged, still not recovered by how she had collapsed near the phone first, then clung to her children while waiting for Henry.
Then Louisa and James approached the house, hand in hand, clinging to each other in that ridiculous way of theirs that tried to pass for dignified, and yet betrayed how passionate they truly were. They had chosen to walk from the station, to talk and to relieve some of the tension and the pain. Their brows were still furrowed, and their mouths trembled as they said, “We have always feared that. The statistics on pilots were clear, and they were on our desk. And now it’s not a number. It’s Kurt.” They left all pretences, and hugged them all, too. James’s uniform bore a black ribbon, same as Gretl’s.
After a while, Friedrich and Nancy arrived, after hitching a ride from the train station. Just in time to see Georg and Frankie return from town on their bicycles. The couple’s eyes were swollen, rimmed red. Likewise hand in hand, fingers clenching, then sobbing in the arms of their family. And another black ribbon decorated a uniform.
“Tell me it’s not true!” repeated Friedrich in the arms of every single one of them. Nancy clenched her jaw looking at him, her pain doubled by the knowledge that Friedrich would take it very hard, yet would try to appear stronger than he really was.
They forced themselves to eat something as they waited. A simple fare, just to get them by.
Then, engines, again.
The hearse, followed by another car from which two RAF men and Brigitta, the fourth black ribbon, exited.
The entire family went out, and the RAF men noticed the uniforms: RMO, RAMC, and a Wren added up to Kurt and Brigitta. A family that did not shirk duty, they thought.
The officers approached Georg and Maria, who had stepped in front of the rest, eyes shifting between the hearse, the RAF men, and Brigitta, looking as if she had been dug out of a crashed Spit herself. She stayed behind as if she were still on some duty. And maybe she was, so no one ran to her, and Louisa and James kept Karo and Tommy still, just in case.
“Our condolences, Captain von Trapp, Baroness von Trapp. I am Wing Commander Philip Dickinson.”
“Flying Officer Pete Hayes. Call sign Ginger. Kurt’s wingman. Captain, Baroness, my condolences.”
They shook hands in silence, then Dickinson reprised. “I apologise for our sparse presence. We are under considerable strain. Have been for months. This is all we could spare.” He looked at the large family, and suggested, “If it’s all right for you, we will help some of your men bearing the coffin.”
Georg looked at Friedrich, James, and Frank. They stepped forward wordlessly. The RAF officers saluted Friedrich and James, then they approached the hearse, as the driver approached Maria to ask for the details: when and where. Eileen offered also accommodation in the main house.
No one moved as the six brought out the coffin, and then inside, followed by one of the funeral house clerks with the coffin stands. The crushing of boots and shoes on the gravel and dirt was all that could be heard. The family then parted to let them all pass, Liesl and Mrs Hughes leading them to the sitting room. The others followed in tow, noticing how Georg and Friedrich brushed the beautiful polished wood that Brigitta had selected for her beloved brother, and how James stared into nothing, jaw twitching.
Setting up the coffin was rather quick. Mrs Hughes brought two candles that they would use sparingly as to avoid conflicts with rationing.
Everyone then turned to Brigitta, who still hadn’t said anything. Louisa had caught the whiff of gin coming from her. Was that the reason for her strange behaviour?
Then Brigitta finally spoke.
“I watched as they put him into it. I saw them close the lid.” Her voice was thin, efficient, emptied of anything that might crack it. “It’s him.”
She spoke like one reciting a flight report: factual, distant, necessary.
And it made her family’s heart wrench even more for her.
Then she added, always as eerily detached as if she were reciting from a report, “He is in his uniform. I didn’t put either the helmet or the goggles back. He had such beautiful hair and eyes. I just had them put them in. And I put the spark plug in his hands, together with the rosary. The spark plug from the Steyr XX we repaired together a few years ago. He had it in the cockpit.”
Georg had started making for her as soon as he understood from her behaviour that she was in shock—his experience as a commander had been valuable—and it was good, because after she had managed her mournful recounting, her knees gave out. Her father caught her, only just.
Louisa, James, Friedrich, and Nancy hurried to her, too, as the others murmured and as Maria made room on a sofa for her, moving the pillows away.
Friedrich stated, “She definitely reeks of gin, poor Gitti. Nancy, darling, do you think it’s just the gin, or the pain too? She is unconscious.”
“Probably both. What do you two say?”
Louisa answered after exchanging looks with her husband. “These are complicated topics. There may be many contributing factors. What matters now is that we let her breathe. Water, please. And we’ll help her shower and change.”
Dickinson muttered, “Bentley Priory colonel said they had gin at tea and gin at dinner. Not pointing fingers. Rough patch between two bloody nights.”
Hayes added, “Could’ve knocked anyone flat. Even without the gin.”
Brigitta came to slowly as she lay on the sofa, Nancy fanning her. Louisa helped her sit up slightly upright and brought her water. “Drink, darling. Slowly. It will do you good.” She brushed her completely mussed hairdo, and kissed her brow.
Brigitta drank, then looked around, as if waking up inside a dream. Everyone was watching her. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused, then fixed somewhere past the crowd. And then, with a voice far too loud to be ignored, she howled, “And now I’ve stolen everyone’s attention away from Kurt.” The words rang out, sharp and unsteady, and her face crumpled. A broken sound escaped her before she collapsed into Louisa’s arms, sobbing with a grief too big to contain.
One by one, she was hugged by her family, too. Friedrich told her “We are all here for Kurt. But you need us now. He’ll understand.” Georg brushed her cheek. “My brave, brave girl. You are not alone. We are all here now.” Maria wrapped her arms around her as if she were ten again. “You should never carry all that weight alone.” The others expressed their love for both her and Kurt.
The Whiteheads offered to briefly honour Kurt and escort the men to the main house, leaving the Trapps freer to grieve and refresh themselves.
Frank pressed his lips to the lid, thinking of his sister. The children followed, mimicking the gesture. Eileen and the RAF men simply brushed the wood with their fingertips.
Then, at last, the Trapps and their spouses surrounded Kurt.
Louisa led Brigitta forward. She bent, forehead resting on the wood, and kissed it again, brushing it softly with her hands. Her sister did the same.
Friedrich clutched the coffin—the solid, undeniable proof that Kurt was gone, and kissed it. His choked “Kurt” brought Nancy to his side. She wrapped her arms around him, kissed the wood too, and brushed it with trembling fingers.
One by one, the siblings and their spouses followed. Each kissed the lid, brushed it, some clinging to it as if they could still reach their brother through its surface.
Henry had to support Liesl, who—as the eldest—couldn’t quite accept that the sweet and cheeky boy whose birth she remembered and whom she had watched grow up was truly gone. Anna and Florian’s homage barely hid the rage in them. Martha and Gretl looked completely dissociated.
Only Karo and Tommy remained composed, though visibly shaken. Somehow, they knew it wasn’t the time to speak of Kurt joining Agathe in heaven. Quietly, they told him how much they loved him, and how deeply they would miss him.
Georg and Maria had let everyone go first. But now, they could no longer hold back. Hand in hand, they stepped forward, bent over the coffin to kiss it—and then collapsed against it, ending up on their knees.
Though their faith told them this was only a goodbye, they were parents who had lost their exuberant, sweet boy—and now had the tangible proof of that loss before them.
Still stroking the side of the coffin, Georg choked out, each word thick with pain,
“You should have carried my coffin and buried me. Not the other way. Never.”
Maria could not speak. She kept kissing the side, whispering his name now and then.
The others all knelt, forming a circle. Brigitta was held upright by Louisa and Friedrich, who in turn leaned on their spouses. Anna and Florian knelt beside their parents; Karo and Tommy joined them, then Henry, Liesl, Martha, and Gretl closed the circle on the other side.
After they had prayed and sobbed for some time, Louisa gently urged everyone to shower and rest before the rosary, and before finalising plans for the next day.
Brigitta needed her sisters’ help, and Liesl and Louisa gladly supported her, while Martha and Gretl prepared towels and rooms.
James, Friedrich, and Nancy readied some tea—and some sort of hair of the dog.
One or two family members constantly took turns keeping vigil beside the coffin, so the household could be prepared.
Later, as everyone was trying to go on and organise shifts for the wake and the rosary, someone else knocked at their door. Anna and Florian accompanied Mrs Hughes, willing to help, and they received the visitors together.
“Good afternoon. We are Flying Officer von Trapp’s ground crew. Sergeant Tom Andrews. My condolences.”
“Corporal Paul Murray. My condolences. Is anyone of the family available to speak with?”
The two men looked at Anna, then at Florian, then back at Anna, who offered, “We will be calling our parents now. Anyway, I am Anna von Trapp, and he is Florian von Trapp. He was our brother. You are very welcome. We will probably host you at the main house.” She tried to sound like the perfect lady, and older than she was, by imitating Liesl. Her height helped too, and that was why the two RAF men did not say anything they might have said to a girl.
They carried a big box. “F/O von Trapp’s personal effects. We should have gathered everything, I believe. There are also his service-dress and full-dress uniforms.”
Anna nodded. “Thank you. Come in.” She motioned for them to enter, and turned to her brother to send him searching for their parents. “Florian, kannst du bitte die Mama und den Papa holen?” She had automatically switched to German, thinking of her parents, and she felt suddenly stupid. “I apologise… my parents usually still speak German to us, when we are by ourselves. But it’s not the right day to speak German.” A tear escaped her.
“Oh, miss, don’t worry. We knew where you all came from.” Sergeant Andrews began his excuses.
“We’d be happy to hear him speaking German, just to hear his voice. Truly, miss.” Corporal Murray hurried to comfort her, but wasn’t sure he had done a good job, since Anna’s tears multiplied.
Meanwhile, she had escorted to the room set up for the wake, where Henry and Liesl were sitting, praying in a mix of English and the Latin Liesl had used until she had married him.
“Elisabeth, Henry, this is Kurt’s ground crew. And these are my sister and her husband, Lady and Lord Aldbury. I hope I did well with the introductions.”
Liesl smiled sadly at her. “You most certainly did, dear.”
Georg and Maria came down the stairs, with Florian still in tow. Everyone introduced themselves, and the crew honoured Kurt, too.
Then, together they looked at Kurt’s box, without finding the courage to look at all of its content. The sergeant picked out the service cap, placed on the top of it all, and said, “I apologise… this will be placed on top of the Union Flag draped over the coffin tomorrow for the service.”
Everyone from the family came down again, attracted by the voices, and also the Whiteheads and the RAF officers. The last details for the ceremony of the morrow were discussed, and everyone looked at the box without looking in it, just touching Kurt’s cap, now on the coffin.
Everyone was invited to the rosary, and everyone stayed, out of respect. Henry, as it was his habit, deadpanned, “See, Kurt? For you, even we Anglicans are ready to brush up our Oxford Latin,” while brushing the wood again. The RAF men simply smiled.
After the rosary, the family continued alternating for the wake. Even Karoline and Thomas volunteered to keep vigil for an hour, before going to bed; Anna and Florian kept an hour and a half.
5 October 1940, in the morning
They had all donned black, except for Friedrich, Brigitta, Gretl, and James, all in full dress uniform and with their black ribbon. All available cars had been tanked for the day, and it was time to say farewell, to let the RAF men go back as soon as possible.
As the RAF men placed the Union Jack and the service cap on the coffin, ready to carry the coffin back to the hearse, there was another unexpected visit.
A distinguished man, probably in his fifties, also donning black, asked for Captain von Trapp, then announced in perfect German:
“Grüß Gott, Korvettenkapitän! I am Tadeusz Kowalczyk, a Galician. And now, a Polish refugee. I remembered your name from the war, one of our heroes. I served in the Imperial and Royal Army in the last war. I work at the printer shop now. We made everything that was possible to get the memorial cards for your boy ready, and here they are.” He handed him a box, which Georg accepted with trembling hands.
He answered, in German as well, “Thank you. It was very kind of you.”
“We Polish will be in church, too. For you. For your boy.”
They all looked at the card. How it hurt. His beautiful picture in uniform, with his smirk barely hidden under his pride and determination, and on the back
Kurt von Trapp
Flying officer, Royal Air Force
Dunkirk & Battle of Britain Fighter
Formerly imprisoned by the Gestapo in Austria
Zell am See, Austria – 18 March 1915
Longfield, England – 2 October 1940
His family, who loved him dearly,
prays for his soul to be admitted to eternal peace in Heaven,
where they will all meet again.
—
REQUIEM AETERNA
Sighs and painful swallowing could be heard as the cards circulated among the family. Maria then announced, “We will have these blessed, too. You will all get one after the Mass. Just tell me how many you’d need for your base.”
The RAF men thanked her.
Mrs Kelly and Mr Doyle had led some of the other Catholic parents of the area to come and pay a tribute to the brother of their children’s schoolmates. Two Irish men volunteered to help with the coffin as the hearse arrived.
The two had also rallied other families from school, no matter the faith, so that the younger children, especially, would feel surrounded by their new community.
And that’s how Kurt’s coffin entered St Joseph: four of his comrade-in-arms and two Irishmen as bearer; Union Jack, service cap, and flowers; the grieving family following; the church almost full.
Even though the first to enter the church had been Georg and Maria, someone else had been the most noticeable, and not just because the siblings had decided to enter in reverse order of age, the older ones arm in arm with their spouses.
Few had witnessed Henry Haverstone, Earl of Aldbury, in all of his power. His family, of course, was well acquainted with Henry, the posh charmer, or with Henry, the one who could open any door he wanted, or with Liesl’s partner in everything and dear husband. They had seen him often at the peak of his sartorial splendour—all Savile Row of course, cliché being a good thing for once—especially as a besotted groom on his wedding’s day.
But this day, 5 October 1940, the Earl entered St Joseph’s Church, Guildford. Because Henry knew when he had to play his role, even when bursting with grief.
Black attire gleamed—top hat doffed, he strode in, straight and proud, Liesl’s veiled grip tight on his arm, his hand steadying hers. He was the might of the peerage incarnate—British pride unbowed, here for Kurt, brother by marriage fallen to the foe. This was the Henry who appeared before royalty, whom only Liesl had witnessed.
A few Irish muttered at an Anglican earl in their Catholic fold. The Polish, on the other hand, admired the family, refugees like them, and cared less for what they saw as internal squabbles. They all watched the family took place with dignity despite the red-rimmed eyes. And Father O’Shea started the liturgy.
At the end of it, one of the Polish refugees, approached the priest with a quiet word. “Father, if I may, I would be honoured to play a final piece for the Captain’s boy. A Postlude.” The priest, understanding the solemnity of the offer, simply nodded. As the mourners formed a queue and came to homage the coffin and then began to file out, Jan took his place at the organ. The famous Funeral March by the Polish hero, Frédéric Chopin, filled the church, a final and powerful tribute from one nation to another.
Afterwards, the four RAF men brought out the coffin, this time with an Irish and a Polish volunteer to help them, to let the family assist to the gun volley.
The Home Guard detachment was already positioned respectfully, and as the coffin was on the yard, a few feet from the hearse, the men stopped, the family in uniform saluted—all palm out, except for Gretl, palm down—and the local commander gave the order. Three volleys of shots in unison, three times.
After that, the Polish started a round of applause, and after the initial surprise, the Irish joined, too.
Back at the estate, the patch that would become their own small Catholic burial site had been rudimentarily marked. The grave had already been dug by the estate staff, who stayed a little behind and respectfully watched.
Father O’ Shea consecrated the marked area, and the grave.
Georg, still stony-faced, intervened.
“Wing Commander, I guess it’s time for you to say something.”
Dickinson straightened himself. “Captain and Baroness von Trapp. Lady Aldbury, Friedrich, Louisa, Brigitta, Martha, Margarethe, Anna, Florian, Karoline, Thomas. Sisters- and brothers-in-law. And all of Kurt’s family and friends.
Today, we gather with heavy hearts to mourn the loss of Flying Officer Kurt von Trapp. Kurt was a brave and skilled pilot who served with distinction in the defence of our nation during its darkest hour. His courage in the skies above Dunkirk and throughout the Battle of Britain will not be forgotten.
His skill as a fighter pilot was exceptional. He possessed a rare combination of daring and precision, a true asset to 11 Group. His dedication to his duty was unwavering. From the skies above Dunkirk to his final engagement, Flying Officer von Trapp accounted for six enemy aircraft, a testament to his skill and bravery.
His loss leaves a void in our squadron. We will remember his skill, his bravery, and his camaraderie. He gave his life in the service of his country, defending the freedoms we hold dear. We owe him a debt of gratitude that can never be fully repaid.
Rest in peace, Flying Officer von Trapp. Your duty is done. We will remember you.”
With a nod to Hayes, Georg said. “Kurt’s wingman: would you like to say a few words?”
“Gladly, Baron von Trapp.” He stepped forward, cleared his throat, and began, voice slightly shaking: “Kurt was my mate—sharpest flyer in 11 Group. Took on those 109s like a mad bastard—saved my neck twice. 6 kills. Genius and speed, I tell you. Bloody shame he’s gone. A fine man. Really, sir. Rest easy, Bull. I mean, von Trapp. Kurt.”
Sergeant Andrews started after a simple nod. “Dear von Trapp family. Corporal Murray and I had the honour of looking after Flying Officer von Trapp's Spitfire. It was clear from the start that he wasn't just any pilot; he had the mind of an engineer himself. He understood the intricacies of his aircraft in a way few others did. He'd often ask detailed questions about the Merlin engine, the hydraulics, the aerodynamics—real technical stuff. He had a knack for spotting potential issues or suggesting improvements, insights that sometimes even surprised us. He treated his Spitfire not just as a machine, but as a finely tuned piece of engineering, something he clearly respected. We were proud to have such a knowledgeable pilot flying one of ours.”
Then Corporal Murray cut in. “That's right, Sergeant. Flying Officer von Trapp had an engineer's brain in the cockpit. He wasn't just relying on instinct; he understood the principles behind every manoeuvre. I remember one time, the hydraulics were acting up, and before we'd even fully diagnosed it, he described the exact symptoms and even suggested a potential cause that turned out to be spot on. He had a real appreciation for the work we did, knowing the engineering that went into keeping him airborne. He always treated us like fellow professionals. We've lost not just a brilliant pilot, but someone who truly understood the machines we worked on.”
Georg, his old officer training still deeply engrained, thanked them with poise and grace before starting the family’s own commemoration.
He had something in his hand. He showed it to the family. It was a folded ensign scrap, from the frayed end of his old submarine flag, lowered for the last time that 1 November 1918, and packed in 1938. He had written on it, hand visibly trembling “Sailed like me, flew like you”. He slipped it onto Kurt’s coffin—under the Union Flag, a father’s token, and repeated his words: “This flag sailed like me, flew like you, my dear boy. Kiss Agathe for all of us. I love you.” His hand caressed the spot where the scrap was now hidden. A lone tear made its appearance on his cheek.
Tommy wanted to imitate his father by slipping the Spitfire model he had been clutching the whole time under the Union Flag. Caressing his sweet face, Maria explained, tears still streaming down her face: “Darling, that was Kurt’s present to you. He’d want you to keep it, love—pick a flower from the hedge instead.”
Maria tried to speak. “I still remember the first day I saw you. How I wanted to hug you immediately. How you said my hugs were the best. I am now glad I have hugged you so often. If I had known, on Monday, I would have never let you go.” She hid her face on Georg’s shoulder, to sob freely, and he pulled her even deeper into him.
Liesl could only say, “I remember you being born. The first one of us I remember clearly. It was so cold in Zell am See, and yet you brought us all warmth and happiness. Then I watched you grow up. I cannot…” and she broke into tears. Henry supported her, and added, “I will miss you, you mischievous brother!”
Friedrich’s words were simple and yet meaningful. “You were my brother, and I love you! I am going to miss you! Kiss Mamá Agathe. She will be happy, at least, to have you with her.” Nancy added, “Thank you for welcoming to the family. You made me and Friedrich laugh, and you were like a real brother to me. I will take care of Friedrich for you.”
Louisa tried to laugh between tears. “Now it’s just Gitti and I fighting for the title of the most terrible Trapp. It’s not fair! Not without you!” James confirmed: “The world needs people like you, and we just lost you. Goodbye, dear brother, and thank you for the laughs!”
Brigitta’s words were honest, heartfelt, and a punch in the guts. “You were my brother. And you were my best friend. We were best friends. Together, we survived heartbreak, we survived university, we survived the SS and the Gestapo. Together, we chose the Air Force. You had the Steyr spark plug with you when you died. They will pay for it. I will never, ever forgive anyone who was an accomplice of these regimes. Rest in peace, dear brother. I truly hope we’ll meet again, but it’s so difficult to believe in anything right now. I’ll try, though.”
If the RAF men had been moved at each one of their speeches, Brigitta’s clearly impacted them even more.
Martha said, “I love you too. We all love you. You made us laugh, always, and you were always so sweet. You offered me a place to start my life as an adult. And we will take care of your car, which I will probably relinquish to Brigitta.”
Gretl repeated, “I love you too. One might think we, who are in service, fear our own death the most. But now I know it’s much worse to be the ones left behind.”
Anna’s moment had come. “You were so funny, and so affectionate. And you slipped me my first wine and my first beer. I love you, too.” Everyone smiled among tears: it was so Kurt!
Florian’s pain was so different. “I cannot believe you are gone. You cannot imagine how much Tommy and I looked up to you and Friedrich—not just Papa. Now it’s just three of us brothers. And we don’t know when it will end, and how. I’ll miss you!”
Karoline was sweet. “You loved teaching me to walk when you came home from university, they told me. Thank you for all these years of siblings’ love. I’ll see you in Heaven!”
And Thomas, his Spitfire still in his hand, was sweet, too. “I love you, Kurt. I’ll see you in Heaven. I hope I can bring this toy Spit with me! Can you ask the Lord and also Agathe if they’d mind?”
Frank’s words touched on his sister, of course. “True. My sister must be so happy to have you with her again. Our mother told me she was so happy to have another boy, when you were born. She worried for your father, at the time, and you brought her so much joy in those dire times. She will probably scold you, you know, for choosing such a dangerous toy to play with. She would have preferred to see you grow old. Goodbye, dear nephew.”
Luckily, Eileen, Patrick and Alice did not add more words than a heartfelt goodbye.
Father O’Shea asked everyone to pray again in silence, acknowledging the different faiths. He then chanted Requiem Aeternam, blessed the selected patch, the coffin, and the grave, and then the Home Guard fired the last volley, as there was the last salute on attention: the RAF men as well as and Friedrich, James, Brigitta—palm out —and Georg and Gretl—palm down, in Navy tradition.
Then the saddest moment of all: the Union Flag was folded and given to Georg. Dickinson looked at the siblings with Kurt’s cap in the hand, pondered something, then went to Florian.
“Friedrich has his own, and I see Tommy has a Spitfire. Would you mind if I gave this cap to you?”
Florian smiled among tears. “I would love to. Do you all agree?”
All the siblings nodded, even Tommy, who proudly showed his Spit; and Dickinson put the hat on him.
And the coffin was slowly lowered to the cold ground of Surrey on an October day.
Georg cast his ensign scrap; the others a flower, and all blew him a kiss. And it was over, as some of the staff started to cover the wood with earth, and they watched him disappear, wordlessly.
Mrs Hughes and the cook had prepared some tea—a poor substitute for a Leichenschmaus, a small repast following the funeral—but the RAF men only drank a sip before hurrying back to their base. They thanked the family profusely for the cards, and announced that they would get a letter from the Ministry, and probably a posthumous ‘Mention in Dispatches’.
Anna and Brigitta had already pulled out two pictures of Kurt and put them on the fireplace: one of him in uniform, and one from Hertfordshire in 1938. Louisa had protested. “We should frame them, first. They can get ruined easily.” Which was true; but then, everyone wanted to feel him with them, and the photos did just that.
As the RAF were leaving, Anna decided to hug and kiss them all. “Thank you! Please never forget him! And try to survive!”
Hayes was touched. “We… we will gladly write down some of his adventures, and send them to you. At least from when he was reassigned to Biggin Hill.”
Everyone agreed.
They had not moved far. They couldn’t.
The sitting room—still warm from the fire but hollowed out by absence—had hosted Kurt’s coffin just hours ago. Now it held only the family: Maria and Georg, their children, and the three spouses. The Whiteheads had returned to the main house, and the house had fallen back into quiet. Stillness clung to the air, thick and exhausted, as if the walls themselves were grieving.
Kurt’s pictures remained on the mantel, untouched. His cap lay on the sideboard, left there with the unconscious tenderness of someone who still expects him to come in and claim it. The folded Union Flag under it, a few flowers on it.
No one had said much for a while. They were sitting, not slumped—but something close. Tommy was on the carpet with his toy Spitfire, deep in thoughts. Florian leaned against his mother, and Karoline against his father, whereas Anna stayed by Liesl and Henry. Some of them were holding glasses, some full, some forgotten. The clink of a bottle opening sounded too loud.
Martha finally broke the hush.
She rose from the armchair and returned with one of her small bags. “Sir Winston gave me some of his whisky,” she said, her voice brittle and a little raw. “He said I’d need it.”
A faint, crooked smile flickered over her lips.
“‘Blitz spirit, literally,’ I told him. Then I started crying. And he didn’t criticise me. He just—he was kind. Can you believe that? He was kind.”
Maria reached across and brushed Martha’s hair with her fingers, slow and rhythmic. She didn’t speak. In another time, she might have cautioned against drink, even in sorrow. But not tonight. Not after this. A bottle among this many people would not lead to intoxication—just a shared warmth, a ritual of sorts, like a candle in a vigil.
Someone poured. The glasses passed around with unspoken permission.
Henry cleared his throat. His voice still cracked, but he tried a little deadpan. “I know it’s too early, but drinking Sir Winston’s legendary whisky is something Kurt would have approved of.”
Louisa looked at the bronze liquid. “If there is someone who might lead us to victory, which means also revenge for Kurt, that’s Churchill for sure. Political colours aside.”
Anna leaned in too. Georg didn’t agree. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Liesl sighed. “Papa, I am sure a sip of whisky to remember her brother won’t harm her. Kurt slipped her some wine and beer already, she said. You were about a year older when you joined the Naval Academy.”
Florian and Karoline smelled the liquid. “It does not smell good!”
Friedrich attempted a smile. “See? The others aren’t even interested.”
Gretl raised her glass. “To Kurt. Whom we’ll miss dreadfully.”
“To Kurt,” everyone said, even the three young ones.
Brigitta downed her whisky as if she needed courage. Then, she brushed her thighs, and she began.
“I need your opinion. Especially Friedrich’s, Louisa’s, and James’s, I suppose. But I need to tell you all anyway.”
The three doctors braced themselves. There was only one reason for such a request. Brigitta continued.
“I had to identify him, then to inspect the wreckage, too. The doctor signed the death certificate saying the cause of death was blunt trauma due to the crash. But I don’t think so. I think the bullets got him first. Even the doctor has written ‘exit wounds neck and shoulder left side.’ I was in the Ops room, and I heard it all unfiltered. He got warned, and I think he tried to turn… and the bullets got him. And maybe the bullets even loosened the firewall, which is why the Spitfire broke in two and his legs were only singed. But why did the doctor write ‘blunt trauma’? Is it routine just because of the crash?”
Georg started to protest. “Are we really discussing this in front of the little ones?”
Brigitta’s eyes narrowed—not with grief, but something colder. “They just buried him as we all did. They know how he died. They deserve to know everything. We’d tell them anyway, you know.”
Maria tried to calm them. “Brigitta, please, I understand you are hurting, but barking at your father is not going to change anything.”
Karo jumped up. “Papa, Mama, it’s true. We want to know, and they would tell us anyway. Even Tommy.” Tommy nodded in silence, his toy Spitfire still in his hands.
Anna pressed, “We have seen dogfights and raids. It’s too late for us to be protected, you know.”
Georg’s knuckles whitened around the glass. “Perfect day to remind me I’ve failed to protect my children.”
Maria took his arm. “Why are you going down that line of thought? Didn’t we agree that it’s all Hitler’s fault? Besides, I think Brigitta wants to talk with us, and with our three doctors in the family.”
Friedrich got back to the main topic, Nancy caressing him to relieve his visible pain, his breath heavy and slow. “It can happen that death certificates are compiled summarily, especially in a time when casualties can pile up quickly. I suppose the main entry is ‘killed in action’. The dynamics aren’t exactly important in many cases. It’s just strange the RAF doesn’t care, though.”
Brigitta, the certificate still in her mind, filled in. “It was, I think, the local GP who simply compiled part of the certificate. I filled in the remaining parts after identification. Then I filed my own report, from my inspection of the wreckage, of Kurt, and from what I heard in the Ops room.”
Louisa added her thoughts. “I agree with you, Gitti: the bullets must have gotten him first. Neck and shoulder? That’s full of vessels. Especially because… why did the plane crash? Kurt must have been unable to react. But the doctor must have thought ‘crash = cause of death’.”
Maria put her hands on her mouth. “Did he suffer much?”
Georg punched his knees with his fists, and swore, a thing he hadn’t done since he was still a young unmarried officer. “Oh, Christ. Maria, that’s the question no one ever asks. Ever.” Everyone was clearly worried and horrified, but no one asked to stop that painful conversation either.
Gretl sighed. “But now we all want to know.”
Louisa opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her eyes glistened, her breath shallow. Beside her, Friedrich stared at the floor, jaw clenched, his chest rising unevenly as if each breath took effort.
Neither spoke. They couldn’t.
The silence stretched, heavy with things unsaid.
James cleared his throat gently, stepping into the gap. “Were there other signs, Brigitta? Did he try to bail out? There are many scenarios.”
Brigitta forced herself to relive those moments. “He looked actually… peaceful. Something was off, but he looked peaceful. I looked at him, even caressed him, even though he was so cold, even though it had been a day already. His left arm was broken, I think. Singed boots and trousers up to his knees. Lots of blood on his shirt, tie, and jacket. The cockpit was separated from the motor, the front, and it must have crashed almost at a nosedive. And from radio, the squadron mates first warned him that a Mes was diving fast from behind him, then said ‘no chute’, but I didn’t get much apart from that. Static, you know.”
James took a breath, steadying himself. “It’s impossible to know for certain, but if you say he looked peaceful… the bullets might have struck the spinal cord directly, or a major artery or vein—somewhere that would cause massive, rapid blood loss. He could have lost consciousness very quickly, perhaps even before he had time to react. That would mean little pain. Near-instant incapacitation. Death without fear.”
He paused, the next words catching in his throat. “If he’d struggled… things would have looked different. He would’ve tried to regain control of the aircraft, for one.”
James didn’t finish the thought. The other possibility—the one playing in his own mind—was too grim to voice.
“But I think we’ve said enough. I might’ve only married into your family, but he was my brother too. And the truth is—we’ll never know for sure. Only that it’s possible he died instantly. That matters, I think.”
“You did right to write everything in your report, Gitti” Martha said, hugging her. “And you said what we all would have asked. Maybe not aloud. Maybe not tonight. But better here—together—than alone in our heads.”
Tommy’s soft voice broke the tension. “He let me and Florian cuddle up with him just a few days ago. He didn’t suffer. He was so good!”
Maria held out her arms. “Thomas, sweetheart—come here with Mama and Papa.”
Georg and Maria wrapped their youngest in their arms, clinging to his warmth like it could ease their own pain. Martha quietly poured another round of whisky.
Liesl, holding on to Henry now, her voice raw, almost pleaded, “We should try to talk about something else. Or this is going to kill us.”
Gretl studied her glass again. “Do you think Sir Winston’s poison is going to kill us first?”
Surprisingly, Anna replied. “How can we keep buggering on until victory if we die? I doubt Sir Winston would give us something that might harm us!”
Brigitta saw Kurt’s face in her head, and managed a smile. “And Kurt would be rather upset, too.”
“You mean by the quality of our poison? Or by our failure to keep buggering on until victory?” Martha inspected the bottle too, for good measure.
“Definitely both.” Friedrich hugged Nancy as he said that. Nancy kissed her dear husband, relieved to see a flicker of light in him after two inconsolable nights.
Louisa reflected on it all. “You know, we could share beautiful memories about Kurt. But… it would still be painful. I have been thinking a lot about myself, Friedrich, and Kurt climbing our favourite tree at our home in Salzburg. It is a beautiful memory, but then… I am reminded of all the bad things that have happened after that, and it’s so hard to keep thinking only about the beauty of it!”
James hugged his wife. “Try, love. Beautiful memories don’t stop being beautiful just because bad things came after.” James kissed her. “And I really hope I am not one of the bad things!”
Louisa suddenly burst out laughing. “Oh, darling, thank you! I needed the laugh!”
Henry swirled his whisky. “James, you’d be competing with Dollfuss, Schuschnigg, Hitler, grief, and rationing.”
“Are you actually wishing for me to win the title of ‘worst thing to happen’?”
“It depends. Do you like winning?”
Gretl was astonished. “How did this happen?”
Louisa had an explanation, of course. “Our brains are trying to survive, to react. It had to happen. Grief cracks the shell, and humour slips through. It's just biology trying to help.”
Liesl tried to join in. “Maybe we should have cooked apple strudel. Kurt loved it as a child. It would have been a nice homage. I remember that we had to offer it at your wedding together with the Esterházy Torte, Mama, Papa!”
The four young ones laughed. “Really?”
Georg finally smiled. “Oh, yes. And we had to remind him several times to behave, or there wouldn’t have been any.”
“We never understood what was wrong with an Esterházy Torte.” Martha shrugged.
“Nothing. He just liked apple strudel. That’s… very Kurt. That’s why he asked to fly a Spitfire and not a Hurricane. That’s why he loved music, and jesting, and speed, and hugs. And so many other things.” Brigitta had to breathe in and out deeply not to crumble again.
Friedrich thought of the time he and Kurt had fought Rettenhofer and the four Heimwehr militants. He would never bring up that memory now. The fight, a clear sign of their strong bond, was tied to Kurt's affair with a married woman, a scandal that had hurt their parents' feelings and would confuse the younger siblings: it was better left in the darkest corners of everyone else’s memory. He also knew that Kurt had had his heart broken later, at university, by his girlfriend Klara, and the memory tasted even bitterer because of it. But the most haunting detail was that during the fight, Kurt had been grazed by a bullet on his left shoulder. It seemed like a dire omen now.
He couldn’t share it out loud, but for Friedrich, it was a funny, painful memory of a time their brotherhood had been forged in fire.
He'd tell the tale to Nancy again, later, in their bedroom. She had always loved that one, and she had also explained to him what must have been going on in Kurt’s head.
He did remember another more acceptable anecdote, though.
“I remember how many times we brawled when our dear Mama, at the time Fräulein Maria, arrived. And we continued for a while. Then, one day, we grew up and became inseparable, or almost.”
“It was the same with me. I mocked him so often as a child, then we slowly became friends, and inseparable,” Brigitta added.
Nancy smiled. “I will always remember he was the one to welcome me to the family, in his own way. And when he visited, it was always a party for all of us, even little Sarah!”
And just like that, everyone remembered a game, a trick, a prank, a smile, a hug.
“And Henry truly has no shame when he needs something—leave for our heroes, information, allies for one of his speeches at the Lords. He’d walk up to Kensington or Buckingham Palace if he needed something, really. So far, he has barged in several Lords’ offices—that I know of. There are rumours of him ambushing some of the King’s Equerries too. And we still don’t know how he got your leaves so quickly!” Martha continued her retelling of her work and of her interactions with Henry in that context.
Brigitta remarked, “You know, as shattered by pain as we are, I think we both would love to be a fly on the wall when Henry inevitably barges in the War Rooms!” A flicker of light seemed to be filtering through the thickness of their mourning.
“Again. When he barges in the War Rooms again, you mean,” said Liesl.
“Oh, dear!” Then she turned to her younger sister. desperate to lighten the mood. “Martha, were you there?”
“Of course!” she said with a nod, the ghost of a laugh passing her lips.
A beat passed, as if she was reliving the chaos of it, when everything had felt both absurd and so dangerously real.
“And what did Churchill say?”
“Aldbury, shut the cursed door!”
The room burst into a brief moment of warmth, as they all started to laugh, knowing exactly how Henry had just bulldozed his way through yet another war meeting.
“Well, if I find mysterious letters from Command or from Sir Winston on my desk when I am back, I’ll know exactly just how my leave was granted, and how much I’ll end up paying for it,” concluded Friedrich.
Karoline looked at them all, then tilted her head. “I suppose we don’t need to sing that song about our favourite things right now, then?”
Maria brushed her hair. “We will keep it for another day. We’ll need it, sometimes.”
Georg and Maria had slipped away not long after tucking the little ones in, the stairs creaking gently beneath their measured steps. The house had grown quieter, voices lower, movements slower. Grief had left a residue in the air—not raw, but weighty.
Upstairs, in their room, the lamplight pooled dimly beneath the drawn blackout curtains, muting every edge. The air hung thick with the ache of the day.
As Georg closed the door behind them, he said, almost sheepishly,
“I’m sorry I cursed. I shouldn’t have.”
Maria didn’t look up at first. She set the lamp’s wick a little lower, then turned.
“Georg, it was a painful conversation. We’re all stretched thin. We’ll need to be more patient with each other for a while—and the Lord will need to be patient with us, too. We’re not saints. We’re parents in a terrible war.”
He managed a faint smile. “Thank you, darling.”
He sat at the bed’s edge, and Maria joined him. Her hand found his, their fingers entwining—anchor and balm.
“You know,” he murmured, voice husky, “remembering can still be sweet. Bittersweet, if you will. Kurt’s idea of dancing the Ländler with you…”
She laughed, just a breath. “How could we ever forget that dance?”
“You were a little bit arrogant, you know,” she teased. “Let me remind you—he’d asked me so sweetly…” She gave his chest a playful smack.
“He didn’t complain either.” Georg’s eyes softened. “He really was a sweet lad. And a funny one.” A beat. “We never quite told him how much we really owed him, did we? That moment—that was it. I knew then, clear as day, I was yours.”
Maria’s eyes, red-rimmed but clear, locked with his. A fragile smile rose between them.
“I couldn’t name it then. I just… felt it.”
And then she leaned in—lips brushing his, soft and sure.
What followed was quiet, deliberate—less a flight from sorrow than a reaching for something solid. In the slow unbuttoning of grief, cloth parted gently, and skin met skin with reverent memory. They moved together not with urgency, but in rhythm with memory and love.
Later, tangled beneath the weight of blankets and time, her head on his chest, his fingers threading her hair, she whispered,
“Still ours.”
The loss hadn’t vanished—but its edges dulled in the warmth of their shared breath.
Then Georg chuckled suddenly, voice muffled in her curls.
“You know what? If he’d known, Kurt would’ve found the whole thing hilarious.”
That did it—they broke into unguarded laughter. Not manic, not forced, just real. The kind of laughter that rises when grief and love mix too closely to keep apart. It spilled into the pillows, shaking their shoulders, slipping into tears they didn’t bother wiping away.
Thank you for everything, Kurt.
Their night still bore the tint of sorrow, but no longer dragged. They had each other. And they could breathe again.
Elsewhere in the house, the quiet thickened. The fire burned low. Voices faded, thinned to the occasional shared memory, or a joke whispered like a spell to stave off the dark.
One by one, the other couples drifted away—first with excuses, then simply with glances. A touch on the arm. A nod toward the hallway. A silence too heavy to sit through. They lingered for a moment with the younger ones—shared a blanket, a laugh, a look—then rose.
None of them said it aloud, but the need was mutual. Not to escape grief, but to meet it in the only way that still felt real. By holding someone close. By claiming life in the quietest, most intimate way.
The night deepened.
And in its silence, the ones left behind slowly noticed how empty the room had become.
Martha came back down, after accompanying Anna to her room and retrieving the rest of Churchill’s whisky. Only the two other unmarried adults were left, Brigitta and Gretl. She had changed into her nightgown and robe, and brought down a pillow and a blanket, too.
“I seriously advise you not to go to bed. I am frankly jealous. Not just because they have found love, but because that is a good strategy to dull the pain.”
Brigitta’s eyes widened in understanding. “Oh, I see. All of them?”
“Sounds like it. And can we blame them?”
“No, we can’t.”
Gretl, already sprawled on the sofa, picked up her service cap from the floor. “Should we go change and pick up our pillow and blanket, too?”
Martha nodded. “Sounds like a good idea. I would have kept Anna with us, but I fear we are bound to trespass certain boundaries, starting with poison.” They all giggled.
Brigitta and Gretl came back immediately. Then Brigitta thought of something else, too.
“I’ll go see what other glasses I can find. And I’ll also bring some water. One never knows.”
She came back with empty jam jars that looked like tumblers. “Sir Winston would be proud of us.”
Martha started pouring. “He’ll be proud if we finish all of this.”
Gretl pulled the sofas slightly together and started making herself comfortable. “If my heart weren’t broken, I would say this is exciting. We, the unmarried young adult ones, having our own party like this.”
Brigitta nodded. “It would be. We can still make the most of it, even with our broken hearts.”
A poorly muffled moan was clearly heard, along with other unmistakable noises. They preferred not to guess which couple was responsible for them. It didn’t matter anyway.
Brigitta pulled her pillows on her head. “Oh, please! I swear, when I get back, I am going to drown my grief in a man, too. Not just one, I suppose. As many as it takes.”
Martha envied her a little. “You two surely can have much choice. We do have ushers and equerries as well as Party officers going around, but it’s not the same.”
“So, our little Martha has sampled the goods, too?” Brigitta was almost gleeful.
“Of course I did. A nice usher. We went out for a while. And you, baby Gretl? Is it true what they say about sailors? Or are you still waiting?”
Gretl cleared her throat theatrically. “I decided to take the plunge. I’d thought maybe a sweet young sailor… but in the end it was a dashing older officer who’d been courting me—kind, charming, and about to be shipped off again. I knew he wouldn’t ask to marry me, but… he treated me like I mattered. We had dinner at a hotel. I’d packed a dress when I first got to Portsmouth—just in case… And he was a gentleman, all the way through.”
Gretl laughed into her glass, but her eyes shone. “I wasn’t in love. But I felt… safe. And grown up. And I don’t regret it.”
Martha reached for her hand. “That matters. That really matters.”
Martha and Brigitta refilled the jars and toasted to that. “To dashing older officers who are gentlemen to the end!”
Brigitta insisted. “And after that? Any young sailor?”
Gretl blushed. “There is someone interesting, right now.”
Another toast. “To someone interesting!”
Brigitta, who was already in a bad state, said it aloud. “We should all pledge to drown our grief in whatever joy we can find—before the next call, the next telegram. As many kisses, as many nights, as it takes. If it’s not one of us to go next, it will be one of our comrade-in-arms. Maybe you are safer at the War Rooms, Martha, but we?”
Gretl didn’t pull back. “I’ll toast to that, and pledge myself. “Sailors, officers, as long as they’re dashing or decent! Gitti can have the aviators—and absolutely no more boyfriends with awful politics. And for Martha: whatever you can find!”
Martha agreed. “I’ll do what I can, but I can do it!”
“Cheers to that!”
The clink of glass against glass echoed a little too loudly in the silence that followed. But no one pulled back. It was their oath now—fragile, foolish, and maybe the only thing that made sense.
The whisky kept flowing.
They weren’t counting anymore—only topping up the cloudy jam jars with sloshed, uneven hands. The warmth from the fire was starting to fade, or perhaps their bodies could no longer feel it properly. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth glass, Martha had begun to sing ‘We’ll meet again’ by Vera Lynn low and slurred, and then forgot the words. Gretl hummed in agreement, swaying slightly where she sat.
Brigitta had gone quiet. Too quiet. It had been the wrong song to hum, with that promise of seeing each other again ‘some sunny day’.
Her gaze had fixed on the darkened window, as if expecting Kurt’s reflection to appear beside hers. Her lips parted. No sound came. Then her shoulders shook, and she choked once—twice—trying not to weep. But it broke through like floodwater. With a strangled gasp, she leaned forward, bracing herself with her elbows on her knees, and said, voice barely audible:
“I cannot believe he’s not going to hug us anymore.”
No one answered. Martha slid beside her, wrapping an arm around her and pulling Gretl close as well. All three were crying now—differently, messily, honestly. The grief had circled back around, sobered them just enough to let it claw through.
Eventually, they collapsed together, tangled in robes and blankets and limbs. One had slid to the carpet. Another curled on a pillow atop a footstool. The fire sank into glowing embers.
And they slept.
The sitting room smelled of smoke, whisky, and wool. The sun was pale through the curtains, doing its best to pretend nothing had happened.
Maria was the first to find them, still tying her robe. She stopped short in the doorway.
Georg came to stand beside her, his arm already around her waist. He took in the three young women, slumped and softly snoring, their faces blotchy with dried tears.
“My God,” he whispered. “They drank the whole bottle. And that’s not the one they shared with us.”
Maria didn’t answer. Her hand went to her mouth, then gently to Gretl’s shoulder, but she didn’t wake her. There was no need to disturb them now.
Nancy appeared silently behind them, Friedrich in tow. She was carrying a bucket and a damp cloth, which she left just inside the door.
“They’ll need this,” she said softly. “Let’s let them be.”
The house was large enough that no one had to speak in hushed tones, yet breakfast unfolded quietly all the same. The table was laid, the kettle warm, but the usual clatter and chatter were absent—replaced by soft movements and the occasional murmur. The children had been gently asked to mind their voices, as to avoid disturbing those who were still resting.
It was a different kind of mourning: not wailing or solemnity, but stillness. A slow morning. The couples, still held close by the night’s intimacy. The younger ones, cocooned in a sense of safety, surrounded by their parents and older siblings, their grief softened by presence.
From the windows, the grave could still be seen—fresh flowers blooming stubbornly against the grey earth. From time to time, a glance strayed that way. No words were needed; the sight was enough to explain the quiet, the weight, the warmth.
Even the Aspirin, passed to Brigitta, Martha, and Gretl, came without fuss. Just a gentle hand, a half-smile—no scolding, no commentary.
Friedrich broke the silence first. “We’ll go to Woking this afternoon. See how the travel goes. We’ll spend our compassionate with our little Sarah. If the trip’s manageable… we might bring her back with us.”
Liesl added, “We’re leaving tomorrow morning. Early. Henry’s taking some time off—we’ll be at Haverstone Hall.”
Henry reached for her hand under the table. “Elisabeth needs me now. The Lords will cope without me for a bit. And I need to be with her—and the children.”
The rest would remain at the Dower House for now—away from the nightly Jerry visits until duty called them back.
Georg stirred his tea slowly. “We said it just a few days ago—we might not all meet again for some time. It’s just bitter that it should happen now, when we most need one another.”
Nancy’s voice was soft but steady. “We might manage Christmas. We’ll bring my parents along. If Friedrich gets leave, we’ll do it.”
Louisa nodded. “And all our plans still stand. We’re still together—even when apart.”
No toast was raised, no grand words spoken. But something held fast between them all. Quiet, like breath. Stronger than silence.
Notes:
The text of the memorial card is inspired by my own grandmother’s memorial card: she died in August 1940, and she was also Catholic.
The Funeral March by Chopin is very famous, and is usually played even at British Royal funerals.
Chapter 34: Picking up the pieces
Summary:
In the wake of their hero's burial, the Trapp family navigates the hardships of the 1940/1941 Blitz, each member grappling with grief and searching for their own version of the British "Blitz spirit". Liesl channels her sorrow into art, an act of creation that not only brings her solace but also sparks an idea for a patriotic exhibition, bringing the family together for a greater cause. Despite new challenges and tragic misadventures, their collective love and unity serve as a beacon of hope, showing that their resilience is as vital as their art.
Notes:
• Content Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of grief, an air raid with a direct hit, the death of minor characters, and depictions of black humour/Blitz spirit. It also details the process of tending to a grave.
• Character Note: Please be aware of the names: Georg von Trapp (the patriarch), his grandson George Haverstone, and King George VI.
• Historical Note: The Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) is a real organization that issues official headstones like the one described.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Haverstone Hall, late October 1940
The fire murmured in the hearth, low and comforting, its glow brushing Liesl’s cheek as she bent over her sketchpad. Outside, a soft October rain whispered against the windows of Haverstone Hall, but in here it was warm—and very still.
Henry stepped in quietly, as if not to disturb a moment he didn’t want to end.
“Hello, darling.”
Liesl looked up. Her smile came slowly, like a thought surfacing from deep water.
“Hello, Schatz. Were you looking for me?”
“One could say that.” He crossed the room with a lopsided smile. “I do tend to seek out the prettiest spot in the house.”
She shook her head softly but let him kiss her—gently, like a memory they were trying to keep alive.
He lowered himself into the armchair near hers, the firelight catching the worn softness of his shirtsleeves, arms resting lazily on the sides, shirt slightly wrinkled, collar open. His hair was more unruly than usual, a curl falling across his forehead. He didn't fix it. She liked it that way.
His smile lingered, even as his eyes told a different story.
“You mean to watch me draw?”
“I mean to admire you. Whatever you might be doing.”
A ghost of a laugh escaped her. “You will hear no opposition from me,” she smiled sadly back at him. She knew he would just sit there, mostly in silence, sometimes maybe even saying something cheeky or romantic. But he would never go beyond a kiss for now. Only later, much later, when they both would be mad for want, be it desire for closeness or sheer passion. He still loved ‘anticipation’, after all these years.
Liesl was charcoal drawing something. She had picked up drawing and painting again after they had been married for a few months, when she had been absolutely sure Henry would not feel some jealousy of Emil. He had never shown signs in that sense, but she preferred not to risk.
Now that she and Henry had decided to take some time off, to mourn in peace and to rest, she had gladly picked up pencils, charcoal, and colours again, when she was not strolling with her husband, or kissing and loving him, or spending time with the children.
He said nothing more. Just watched. She had charcoal on her fingers again—that always made him smile. The black dust clung to her wedding band, as if it, too, bore witness to her mourning.
She bent again over the paper. Henry’s gaze followed her hand. Slowly, his eyes sharpened with recognition.
“Elisabeth… is that… is that a Spitfire?”
She nodded, eyes still on the paper.
He looked closer. The Spitfire was not flying. It was crumpled, torn, smoke curling from its flank. A woman was lifting the pilot from the cockpit—not in panic, but in utter reverence. Her face was calm, maternal.
“Elisabeth…” His voice caught. “Is that your mother Agathe? Carrying Kurt to Heaven?”
Liesl nodded again, lips pressed tightly together now. The charcoal lines were blurred slightly. A tear, maybe.
Henry rose and came behind her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. He kissed her temple with reverence.
“Does it help, my love?”
She nodded into his sleeve. “It was Karo and Tommy’s idea. They said he is now with Agathe, and then Tommy said Agathe would have picked Kurt up like Mama Maria picks him up when he scrapes his knee. That boy is so sweet, and it does a lot of good to our George, too, since they are so close.”
Henry let out a breath that was nearly a laugh. “Our youngest brother. God bless him.”
She leaned into him then, the grief shared wordlessly between them. And for a few seconds, there was only the quiet sound of rain, and the rhythm of their breathing. Henry then kissed her on her temple.
After a few moments where they shared grief and hope in each other’s arms, George burst into the room, nanny and Mary Agatha in tow.
“Hello, Dad! Mami! I missed you!”
“We missed you too, young rascal!” Henry replied.
“Dad, I am not a rascal. Mami says I am a good boy!”
He charged into their embrace, squeezed himself between them, and planted a kiss on Liesl first, then on Henry—then raised his chin and demanded one from each in return.
Mary Agatha followed more quietly, climbing onto her father’s lap with a soft “Dad! My dad!”—as if confirming the world was still in its place. After Henry wrapped her in an adoring hug, she stretched her arms toward Liesl and nestled into the family warmth.
George spotted the drawing on Liesl’s lap. Even he understood at once.
“Is that Oma Agathe bringing Kurt to Heaven, like Uncle Tommy said?”
“Yes, darling,” Liesl answered gently.
George furrowed his brow. “Do you think Oma Maria will be jealous?”
“I think,” said Liesl, brushing a hand through his hair, “Oma Maria would be very grateful. For her to bring Kurt to Heaven herself, she would have had to leave Opa—and all of us—here, alone. That would’ve been just as sad as losing Uncle Kurt. Agathe and Maria love us all. They understand each other.”
George nodded with the solemnity of someone twice his age. Mary Agatha chimed in, “Uncle Kurt, we love you!”—a phrase she had heard so often it had become part of her rhythm.
Then George suddenly brightened. “Mami… you need colours for that!”
He dashed off and returned with his crayon box, plopping down beside her and setting to work. Liesl guided his hand gently as they filled in the spaces between the charcoal strokes together. George asked what hair colour Agathe had, what colour the sky should be, and double-checked the Spitfire with Tommy’s toy for accuracy.
The result was, unexpectedly, beautiful—striking and soft, like something lifted out of memory. Henry examined it and nodded with real admiration. Little Mary Agatha on his lap endearingly imitated her daddy.
“Darling, we could have copies made. Give them to those who’d want one.”
Liesl smiled faintly. “Yes. And perhaps… even organise a small exhibition. Patriotic, to raise funds for the Blitz victims. God knows what the Blitz is costing.”
It gave them purpose. Their time together at Haverstone Hall—far from the bombing, surrounded by gardens and silence—had been a much-needed respite. But after a while, stillness turned heavy. Grief needed an outlet. Action.
Brigitta sometimes came to visit, since Bentley Priory was relatively nearby—no need to navigate Blitz damage across London. She needed them, they could see it. It was so hard for her, and she must have been going through hell. Liesl suspected she was in a very dark place at the moment, and possibly making choices she should not have made, but Brigitta always evaded her inquiries.
Louisa and James, as well as Friedrich and Nancy were living and working under the bombs, doing what they could to save others. Friedrich and Nancy, at least, lived in a slightly safer part of the city, and they also could escape to Woking sometimes, to be with Sarah, and from there to the Dower House to meet their parents and siblings. On the other hand, exhausted, overextended, and too close to the East End for comfort, Louisa and James often had to sleep in their cellar. They rarely visited. When the phone lines held, they called.
Martha visited occasionally too, though her days were split between personal grief and Parliament affairs. Her calls were a strange mix of sibling warmth and Cabinet business.
Gretl could only visit the Dower House. At least, she could pop even for a short visit. It was so important not just for their parents, but also for Anna, who sometimes felt nearer to her than to Florian, at that age.
Georg and Maria phoned when they could, with the younger children and sometimes even with the Whiteheads in the background. Crossing London to visit was too dangerous—and it hurt, this necessary distance, when they most needed to be near each other. The days were now too short to attempt a mad dash like that last one meeting at the end of September, or like the one for the funeral.
It was Georg and Maria who had received the letter from the Ministry. They would soon receive Kurt’s posthumous ‘Mention in Despatches’, and the headstone.
For now, Georg had carved a wooden cross for Kurt, using whatever he and Frankie could find on the estate. He painted it himself, Florian assisting with solemn focus. Maria said Georg had cried while building it, and Florian, too, even though he had tried to hide it. And that they all cried again when they planted it in the soil.
Then, as soon as everyone was told of the provisional cross, there had been a rather peculiar visit—one they'd first heard about from Liesl’s parents and Brigitta both.
Brigitta had come with another WAAF girl, Lauren, who wanted to see Kurt’s grave and put some flowers on it. That was all she and Brigitta had said to the family. The two had gone, hand in hand, and come back with visibly red-rimmed eyes.
Georg and Maria had welcomed her, of course. “Anyone who wants to mourn him, greet him, or put some flowers on his grave is welcome. Even without Brigitta. Just let us know, and come in for a cup of tea, if we are here. It’s going to be our own private cemetery; we expect people will come by in the future.”
But their eyes barely hid a question neither of the young women wanted to hear—Brigitta clearly knew the story, and her loyalty to Lauren—probably even to Kurt—meant silence.
Lauren, however, was direct. “I thank you for your kindness, and your hospitality. But I don’t want you to think there was going to be an announcement of any kind. I’m just someone who’s going to miss Kurt very much. That’s all.” She paused, swallowing. “I’ll take you up on your offer. I’ll come when I can—alone or with others—unless we’re the next to go.”
The couple desisted, even though Georg would have wanted to talk to her, as someone who had been a widower. But Maria had quietly stopped him. “She doesn’t want you to,” Maria said later. “She was clearly in love with Kurt—still is, poor girl—, but maybe he wasn’t? Or he wasn’t sure? You know he would have introduced her as his fiancée, if he had been sure. She is already suffering enough; she doesn’t need us meddling.”
Lauren was warmly invited to come when they’d set the headstone, as were all others, and that was it.
Later, Brigitta had confided in Liesl and Henry, asking them not to share it with their parents. “Martha and Gretl already know, and all of us siblings are welcome to. Just not Mama and Papa. They’d start asking questions about me having boyfriends, and Kurt having girlfriends. And they wouldn’t like any of the answers, even if vague.”
Lauren had been madly in love with Kurt. He had liked her—very much. She was sweet, sociable, beautiful, always ready to help at the base, and she had made no secret of how much she wanted him. He had been a good boyfriend, as had always been his way—faithful, affectionate, kind. But that was all, and he wouldn’t say the words to her unless he meant it. They wanted to see what would happen if they continued—whether he’d come to love her as she did him, whether they would be happy together—, but his priorities were always his Spitfire and the family.
Lauren knew it. She never complained when he rushed to visit Brigitta and their family on leave. Never complained when he preferred to stay with the boys or with the entire Biggin Hill group, to keep the camaraderie alive. Never complained when he was just too tired and went to sleep.
His mind and heart had been pulled in every direction: family, flight, comrades, ghosts. Maybe he wanted to love her. Maybe he needed to be held. Maybe she wasn’t the love of his life. Or maybe she might have been—if there had only been more time.
They would never know now.
Brigitta grieved for this, too. For the unfinished. For the fact that he had been looking again—for something real—after their heartbreak in Vienna. She had wanted so badly to see him happy. Like the other three who had married.
Liesl sobbed into Henry’s shirt, and Henry looked like he might just cry himself. “That’s so sad. Poor Lauren. How she must feel.”
Brigitta nodded. “When I identified him, I was certain it was him because I found our family photo from the summer of ’38 in his breast pocket. Just our photo. He didn’t have hers. Only our Trapp picture. I didn’t tell her. She knows very well where she stood—but there's no need to be cruel.”
Henry sighed. “Maybe… for her, it was better to have tried. To have those few moments. Kurt was always kind to people he liked, even a little. I can imagine he made her feel like a princess.”
“And he probably wanted to feel less alone, after Klara,” Brigitta added quietly. “He was still heartbroken. And it had been a long time.”
She trailed off. Her eyes drifted to a point beyond the window, beyond the rain-streaked glass.
Liesl and Henry couldn’t know that she was thinking of all the people she had tried to forget herself with.
Or the nights she’d pretended someone else’s arms could make up for the love she had lost to politics, or for the beloved brother and friend that would never return.
Therefore, when Liesl, or better, the Countess of Aldbury launched her idea of a patriotic exhibition to fund ARP and hospitals, everyone was happy to be in it, both as relatives and as subjects. In some cases, even in their official capacity: Martha brought immediately the congratulations and the support of the War Cabinet: a telegram from Queen Elizabeth herself arrived, to announce the endorsement by the Royal Family. Brigitta, Louisa, James, Friedrich, and Nancy would spread the news. Georg, Maria and the Whiteheads did the same. They felt like a family again, even though they were distant, or not near enough.
Everyone in the country was asked to submit their artwork, provided it touched on the British spirit, on resilience, on courage, on love. The first show would start just after Boxing Day, to make use of the Twelve days of Christmas and to begin the new year on an optimistic note.
Liesl and George’s artwork, named Safe Passage and signed by both, was used as a poster, and would be shown directly at the entrance. There would also be the entire explanation of the Trapp family story, and of how the artwork came to be. Of course, the family ordered some copies of it. They all appreciated it immensely, and those who could still believe in God even convinced themselves it was what had happened.
The first show would be hosted at the Dower House in Haverstone Hall, not in use except as a staff quarters. Then, a second one in Guildford, at the Town Hall, to let Maria help, too, and to honour Kurt.
Then, there would be the inevitable culmination in London. Henry was worried: he didn’t like having Liesl there, and he understood Ricky’s veto that had locked Marianne in Norfolk long ago. However, it was inevitable.
The exhibition was called Britain in strokes – Images of a nation that will not surrender, and it was a success from the beginning. Everyone wanted to support hospitals and ARP; everyone wanted to witness how resilient the British spirit could be, and appreciated the artwork. On display, there was a lot of serious artwork, while other, cheekier pieces — some irreverently mocking the Jerries — brought much-needed comic relief. People stormed the opening at the Dower House, including some peers and gentlemen from the North of England. They shook hands with Brigitta in her WAAF uniform, still bearing the black ribbon for Kurt. Even Liesl and Henry still wore black. Sometimes, the children were present, too, leading to even more offers.
Then it was the time for Guildford, where Maria and Georg, still in mourning, stood side by side with Liesl and Henry. Even this time, it was a success, and peers and gentlemen from the South lined up to see it. Guildford, however, had also a larger local community, and could be easily reached from most Surrey towns; therefore, there were sometimes long queues.
Anna, Florian, Karo, and Tommy did show up sometimes, in mourning attire as well. People asked them about their brother, feeling it easier to talk with them than with the grieving parents or with the Countess and Earl. Gretl, with her own black ribbon, managed a few visits with other Wrens too: their officers had even encouraged visits.
Liesl took care to explain the contents to the Mayor and the newspapers. “It’s not just a display of grief, or of humour. Every stroke of pencil or paint was done with someone else in mind, or with something in mind—something that people are planning on doing when everything is over. That’s why you will find artwork that will move you to tears, artwork that will motivate you to act, and artwork that will lift your mood for the day.”
Then came London, and Henry decided to send Liesl’s maid home, keeping only his valet Davies. Davies, with his understated British humour, and also his flexibility and willingness to help, was indispensable.
This time, they had visits by Brigitta, Martha with half the Cabinet staff and even Sir Winston and Attlee, Louisa and James with their team, Friedrich and Nancy with their team.
One evening, Uncle Frankie asked Henry to go to their London townhouse and retrieve some old accounting books. He and Georg, still blocked in Surrey by the children’s ban on unnecessary travels, needed the figures for their provisional evaluation of the Blitz damage to ships and the supply chain. Because of the risk of travel to London during the winter and the Blitz, Frank had asked Liesl, who was already in the city, to read some of the numbers over the phone. He and Georg would then get the physical books on the next occasion they would all meet again.
And so, they entered the townhouse in Grosvenor Square, damp as any basically abandoned house would be.
Henry joked, “Davies, I know your spirit is telling you to start a fire against the dampness. Just don’t. We’ll pick the books and be on our way immediately.”
Liesl went to her uncle’s study, and in a matter of minutes had dug out the books.
And, of course, in that moment, the siren was heard.
Davies shot back at his master. “Sir, I esteem you immensely, but your comments on our plans seem to be a threat to national security. To the cellar, madame, sir.”
Liesl added, “At least, Papa did reinforce and retrofit this cellar, too.”
“Bless our beloved patriarch Georg,” Henry muttered as they locked the inner hatch. “Man built a bunker with manners.”
“Just very damp, sir. But at least everything we need is here. Whistles, too. Here, sir.”
Liesl looked at Davies, amused. “No joke about the Jerries solving the dampness problem for us? Davies, are you losing your touch?”
“Madam, I will promise to utter the most outrageous words as soon as possible. Disappointing you is disappointing the master. And we all know I would never do that. Except when you order me to do it, of course.”
Henry and Liesl laughed.
They sat on one of the cots under timber and near one of the reinforced walls, full of sandbags, embracing tenderly. Davies sat on another.
What they soon noticed was that the bombs seemed to fall rather near. Very near. Henry checked the openings for air, checked the timber, and checked several times whether everyone had its whistle. He didn’t even notice what he was doing.
“Why are they attacking Mayfair? Is the elegance of peers and gentlemen a threat to German hegemony? It must be, considering how the Führer dresses.” Liesl masked her nervousness with humour. Leaving their children orphan was something she would never want.
Henry joined her. “I have to say, some of the hats displayed by you ladies do justify such a brutal attack.”
She elbowed him playfully.
Suddenly, a shrieking sound dominated the usual Blitz sounds, and then a loud percussive blast. Everything lurched, and Davies had an instinct: to push the couple so that they would be completely against the sandbags and under the timber structure. In that moment, Henry had an instinct, too: to cover Liesl with his body, shielding her, as they felt their eardrums tense and the ground heave beneath them.
Then it was fragments and stones flying, then darkness.
When at least the crashing sounds had stopped, Henry tried talking, despite the acrid smell that was invading their nostrils.
“Elisabeth? Love? Are you all right?” He spewed a little—the dust from the explosion and the collapse.
“Oh, darling! You are all right!” She spewed, too.
“That would be my first impression. Of course, I cannot see a thing.”
“True. Davies? Davies? Are you all right?”
No answer.
Henry tried too. “Davies? Come on, old man. If the dust bothers you, use the whistle.”
Still no answer. The silence that followed was thick, wrong — the absence of Davies’ usual quip louder than any explosion.
Liesl felt something dripping on her forehead. “Darling… something is dripping. I hope it’s not something inflammable.”
Henry’s hold on her tightened. “I hope not. Anyway,” and he carefully waved an arm, “it seems like we have a nice air pocket.”
Liesl carefully touched his face. “Darling, I think you are bleeding.”
“OUCH!”
“It’s here, near the attachment of the hair.”
“Yes, darling, and it hurts if you press it like that!”
Liesl almost burst into tears. “I am just checking if you might be dying!”
He kissed the crown of her head, dust be damned. “I am sorry, darling. I understand. I don’t feel particularly sick or in pain, but I am worried about Davies.”
“It seems to be a superficial cut. Maybe a fragment hit you? And yes, I hope Davies is just knocked out somewhere. What do we do now?”
“We wait. When we hear something or someone, we whistle and shout. The timber and sandbags must have protected us; and there are other air openings. We should be fine.”
And so, the longest wait of their life began. They sometimes tried to talk a little, but they didn’t want to say anything gloomy, such as the fear that their children would be left alone, or that they hoped that Kurt would pick them up, in case, although they did think about it.
They tried to remember all of their adventures with the gang and with her siblings. To think about how they’d laugh about this one day.
The explosions had continued for a while, until the all clear. Then, only the other sounds remained: distant bells, the crackling of fires, crumbling noises.
Finally, above the crunching of debris, they heard a shout. “Anyone there? Keep calling out!” It was the distinct voice of an ARP warden, his tone both urgent and practiced.
“Over here!” Henry yelled, his voice hoarse, then whistled. Then he and Liesl kept yelling and whistling until they were sure they had been heard and located.
Soon after, the heavy rumble of fire engines grew louder in the distance. The warden, a stocky man with a dirt-streaked face, directed a team of firefighters who began carefully clearing some of the larger debris. In the distance, other bells rang.
Then, a group of figures in helmets and sturdy boots appeared, rescue workers with shovels and lamps, their faces grim but determined.
Freeing them was not an easy task. When they were pulled out, they noticed that the house was reduced mostly to rubble, only a wall and a corner still standing. Georg’s work had saved their lives, no doubt. They noticed several emergency vehicles, and a fire brigade lorry, too.
“My valet was with us, too, but we haven’t heard him,” said Henry to the ARP warden, while he was getting his cut on the forehead hastily medicated.
Liesl was telling the ambulance staff their names, and they soon hurried to ask whether they wanted to be carried somewhere specific. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled as she said: “Either Barts or the London Hospital will do. The former, my brother, Lieutenant Friedrich von Trapp, medical officer; the latter, my sister, Dr Louisa von Trapp.”
“Milady, we are bringing you there immediately. Where they have more capacity. The rescue squad will keep searching for your valet, don’t worry.”
Henry was not exactly happy, but he understood the teams had much to do. As they drove away, Henry wondered, “Do you think we still have a townhouse?”
“I don’t know, but as long as we are still living, it doesn’t matter.”
The admission to hospital was a whirlwind of hurried instructions and the squeak of gurneys. A nurse, her face etched with fatigue, efficiently began to clear a small area. “We will pull the curtain, and give you a bit of space, my lord, my lady. Every corner is precious tonight.” Another nurse was already on the phone. “We’ll alert your sister immediately, Lady Aldbury.”
And soon, they were brought to two beds next to each other, two nurses pulling the beds nearer. One bed was pushed up against the wall, while the other remained beside it, partially enclosed by a drawn curtain for privacy.
A nurse started checking Liesl, and another did the same with Henry. She immediately removed the bandage, and started cleaning the wound, again, Henry protesting for the pain.
“I apologise, Lord Aldbury. We’re reserving morphine for life-threatening cases.”
Then Louisa was there, her white coat smeared with fresh blood, her eyes wide with concern. “Liesl, Henry! Oh, thank God…” Her voice was tight with emotion. “Sister Mac Kinley, how is the Countess?”
“Superficial bruising so far, Doctor. Legs, one arm.”
“And the Earl?”
The nurse wasn’t bashful. “Sir, we’ll have to remove some of your clothes, too.” Then, back to Louisa, calm amidst the urgency, replied, “A laceration to the forehead, Doctor. Needs cleaning and likely Sulpha and stitches. Other contusions, of course”
Louisa leaned over him. “Oh, yes. Sorry, Henry, I have to patch you up. It will sting.”
Henry reacted as usual. “Is the clothing removal thing a strategy to check whether Liesl’s confidences are true? You could have just asked me.”
Louisa looked at him with affection. “You… even in these circumstances… joking.” She patted his hand as the nurse prepared the instruments.
She then checked on her sister, and she seemed all right, dust and bruises aside. She hugged her and kissed her. “Liesl… dear God! They called me saying that they had pulled you out of a blitzed house! Nothing more!”
“I am sorry, Lou. I think Papa’s retrofitting of the Whiteheads’ cellar saved our lives. The house is barely standing.”
“You were at the Whiteheads?”
“Yes. Davies was with us. No idea whether he survived or not. They hadn’t pulled him out yet. We haven’t heard his voice since the blast.”
Louisa’s brow corrugated. That was not promising. But she concentrated on her job. “So, Henry, now the nurses will keep you still, and I will patch you up. You will both stay in for observation. God knows you can afford to pay for everything, and we need the money. I’d also put you on Sulpha. You were under the rubble for hours with an open wound. By the way, looks like a fragment of the house hit you, cutting you.”
Henry did not particularly appreciate receiving ten stitches, especially not with Louisa taunting him in their usual manner. “Come on, for Britain! For King and Country!”
When it was over, James passed by, in a hurry. Both he and Louisa kissed the two, and said they would be back, but they were bringing in other Blitz victims and they were stretched thin. “Barts must have been already full. We’ll call there, anyway, to alert Friedrich, then we’ll call the others.”
Liesl was worried for them. “Do you ever sleep?”
“Even when we are home, we sleep in the cellar. Here, we sometimes sleep on the floor when we feel like we need to rest. It’s a nightmare, really. But at least, when they bring them in, it means there is hope. That first raid… almost no one came in. Now, you two rest, and if you well unwell you alert the nurses immediately. We’ll see you in the morning. Try to rest, somehow.”
Could anyone truly rest here? Patients came in groaning, the deceased were quietly wheeled out under sheets, and nurses bustled from one crisis to the next. They could hear laments, snoring, voices.
And yet, at some point, they must have both fallen asleep. They woke up in the morning, the bustling hospital around them coaxing them to full awareness.
What greeted them upon waking was something between heartbreaking and beautiful.
Louisa and James, their coats completely smeared, sleeping on the floor between their beds, hugging each other. And Friedrich and Nancy, in equally smeared coat and uniform respectively, looking at them.
“Well, look who made it through the night,” Nancy whispered, blinking fast to hold back tears.
Friedrich observed solemnly, “The Lord seems to be testing our entire bloodline lately.”
Henry stirred a little, regretting it immediately because of the stitches pulling at him. “I’d say the Lord is apparently settling some matters straight with Britain as a whole, Friedrich.”
Liesl protested. “Henry, darling, don’t be rude to Friedrich. He is a sweet soul. And he is right. First Kurt, now this. My parents must be worried sick!”
“I apologise, darling. I am not in a particularly good mood.”
Friedrich and Nancy kissed them, trying not to wake up the couple sleeping on the floor, exhausted.
Henry looked down at them. “This will be my next speech at the House of Lords—our real heroes sleep in corridors and cellars, not gilded chambers.”
Friedrich added, “You really need to rest for a while. We were still grieving for Kurt. Now this. It all takes a toll on you. The King’s equerry has been alerted. I am sure they will find a solution for the exhibition. But please, go back to Haverstone Hall as soon as you are dismissed.”
Liesl was worried. “Have you talked to Papa and Mama?”
“I think Louisa did. Woke them up, scared the hell out of them at first.”
Henry had another question. “News from Davies?”
Friedrich and Nancy exchanged a sad look. Nancy took over, squeezing her husband’s hand.
“They found Davies later that night,” Nancy said quietly. “I’m so sorry, Henry. He didn’t survive.”
Silence followed. Liesl’s hand reached for Henry’s, their fingers clasping like lifelines.
Then Friedrich took over. “There is also other news. They all contacted both me and Louisa, since you gave them our names, and since we were both on duty last night. Your brother, Cecil. Another one of the Mayfair victims. I know relations were strained, but he was your brother, still.”
“Cecil?” Henry echoed, disbelieving. “Has anyone told Marianne yet?” Liesl stood up and carefully nestled herself in her husband’s bed, silently.
“I thought… you might want to call her. Or send a telegram.”
“I will. I will. Thank you for telling me. That… that… will be a complicated matter. I will pay for Davies’s burial. Here in London, where he has relatives. Cecil… he is a Haverstone. We’ll have to bury him at the Hall cemetery. Unless his wife disagrees.”
Friedrich and Nancy seriously doubted the burial was Henry and Liesl’s main thought at the time, but then again, people pulled out from the rubble seldom were all right for a while. They were glad Liesl had understood what to do: she had nestled with him, and was caressing him tenderly.
Henry’s face tightened, as if something long-suppressed had clawed its way to the surface.
He sat up straighter, eyes wide. Then suddenly said:
“I know it. I know who it was. One of Elisabeth’s spurned lovers. The Nazi one. He wanted revenge.” He laughed nervously, and Friedrich and Nancy braced for the inevitable culmination of it.
Friedrich did reply, as if to test Henry’s reaction, “Rolf. Rolf Gruber.”
He started wiggling his finger at them. “Yes, that’s him! Rolf Gruber! That was him!”
He let out another nervous laughter.
And then he crumbled, erupting into tears, as Friedrich and Nancy had expected.
Liesl tightened his hold on him, peppered him in kisses, and murmured, “Darling, darling, I am so sorry. I am here. You are not alone. We are never alone. We are a force, all of us together, you know it.”
They joined in the hug, waking the other two up so that they could also offer their comfort and then say goodbye.
“We are sorry to leave you like this. Our condolences. We really need to go home and sleep. Lou and James are coming with us, since it’s safer and calmer. You know how to find us if you need us. Mama and Papa might try to visit, too.”
It was nearly noon when the noise dimmed slightly and a nurse brought them weak tea and dry biscuits. Liesl coaxed Henry into eating something, though he looked as if every crumb was too much effort. The hospital ward, still busy, had settled into a dull hum rather than an overnight crescendo.
They were sitting together affectionately, grieving all they had to grieve, when a familiar voice rang across the ward.
“Oh, Gott sei dank! You are truly all right!” Maria, face tear-streaked, made for them, Georg in tow, his jaw twitching.
They were pulled into tight, tearful hugs, Maria’s kiss landing on Liesl’s cheek, Georg pressing Henry’s shoulder with trembling fingers.
Liesl talked first. “Papa, you saved our life. Your retrofitting. But the Whitehead house is… gone.”
“Houses can be rebuilt, my girl. You two, we could not replace. That’s all that matters now,” stated Georg.
Maria joined in. “We came as soon as we dared. The trains were a nightmare, and we want to get back out before dark if possible. But… we had to see you. Everyone is sick with worry. And we had to kiss you.”
Henry managed to talk. “Please, go. Before nightfall. Remember our siblings’ promise: the younger ones must never be left orphans.”
Georg nodded. “Don’t worry. We will manage.”
Liesl added, “Did you hear? Davies didn’t survive. He shoved us as close to the timber and sandbags as possible as soon as he realised a bomb must have hit us. And Henry… he tried to cover me. He got more bruises, and that cut.”
Maria and Georg looked at each other, sad and lost. “We are so sorry for your loss.”
“And his brother. Cecil. Also a victim of the raid.”
“Oh, our condolences, despite all.”
“Thank you,” Henry said, looking anywhere but at them.
Just in that moment, a commotion could be heard coming from the entrance to the ward.
Then—hushed voices, composed but quick steps. Heads turned. Something about the air changed, became formal, reverent. The King and Queen had entered.
“Lord Aldbury, Lady Aldbury. We received word from your sister, Dr Louisa von Trapp. We wished to offer our sympathy in person. Mayfair and Kensington have suffered terribly.” The King’s voice was calm and solemn.
Then Queen Elizabeth continued. “We are deeply sorry for the loss of your brother and your loyal valet. Your courage and service do not go unnoticed. You were in London serving the nation.”
The King once again spoke. “And this after you lost your ace fighter brother, Lady Aldbury. The Royal Family wishes you to know that we are proud of your extended family, and that we regret your present circumstances.”
Georg and Maria were fascinated. Georg, as a monarchist, had found in King George VI what he had been looking for since the collapse of the Austrian Monarchy: a democratic king, and an exemplary father of two girls who were about Anna’s age. Maria, as a curious woman, and as a realist, was in awe, too, although not as much as her husband.
As the royal couple seemed to notice them, Henry cleared his throat and introduced them. “Your Majesties, forgive the informality of the setting. These are Lady Aldbury’s parents, Baron and Baroness von Trapp—dual citizens of Austria and Britain. Well, Hitler might contest the Austrian part…” Liesl elbowed him.
The two respectively bowed and curtseyed as they used to do in Austria.
The King and Queen were rather touched. The King spoke first, almost in jest. “Ah, the old Spanish protocol still lives, then. Impeccable manners. I should have expected it from the parents of such an exceptional lady like our Countess here.”
Queen Elizabeth, who was a mother, focused on the most important part. “Our condolences for the loss of your heroic boy. I see you still wear mourning. And I will join my husband in congratulating you for your family. You all seem to be very active in supporting the nation. We need more like you.”
Georg found his voice first. “We thank Your Majesties. We only do what conscience commands—and what love demands.”
Henry made an effort to rise, his hand pressing into the thin mattress, but the motion pulled at his bruises and the stitched cut near his side. Liesl, instinctively, began to push herself up as well, but she winced sharply, and both of them froze in place.
Queen Elizabeth stepped forward at once. “Please, do not rise on our account. Your presence is greeting enough. You must rest.”
The King echoed her, his voice even but kind. “You have already paid dearly. Let that be your service today.”
Georg, standing tall despite the fatigue of travel, looked between them. “Your Majesties, if I may—Maria and I must return to Surrey before dark. The trains are… uncertain, and our younger children are waiting.”
Maria added, with a gentle smile that masked her worry, “And frankly, the youngest ones don’t sleep well unless Papa tells the bedtime story.”
A brief, sympathetic smile touched Queen Elizabeth’s lips. “Of course. Do give them our warmest wishes. And thank you—for coming, and for raising such children.”
Georg gave a modest bow. “It is we who are grateful, Your Majesty.”
Liesl’s voice, soft but steady, chimed in. “We’ll write and call as soon as we can. Let you know we’re safe.”
Maria leaned over to kiss her forehead once more. “I’ll tell your siblings you’re being fussed over by kings and queens. That should help.”
Even Henry managed a faint smile.
Queen Elizabeth gave one last nod to them all. “Rest well. And recover. You are very dear to this country, whether born into it or not.”
And with that, the royal couple turned with their attendants, leaving in quiet grace, their presence lingering in the soft murmurs that followed.
Georg checked his pocket watch, then turned to Liesl with a furrowed brow. “We truly must go.”
Maria gave Henry’s hand one last squeeze. “Please don’t worry about us. Just… get well.”
Georg kissed Liesl’s brow and briefly clasped Henry’s shoulder. “You were brave. Both of you. And now you must rest.”
Without lingering for more goodbyes—time and circumstance forbade it—they followed a nurse to the exit, the echo of Maria’s heels fading into the hum of the ward.
The silence that settled afterward was different from the one before—a strange stillness that followed reverence and recognition.
As the footsteps faded and the ward's usual murmurs resumed, Henry leaned his head back against the pillows.
“Well,” he murmured, “that was surreal.”
Liesl looked sideways at him. “Them?”
He nodded. “I mean—yes, we've seen them before. But it’s rather different when they’re standing at your bedside talking about your dead valet and brother.”
She sighed. “It’s like two worlds collided. The pomp and the blood. They looked so out of place and yet… not at all.”
Henry gave a dry smile. “I suppose that’s the point of them, isn’t it? To show up for both. The pageantry and the pain.”
Liesl turned her teacup slowly in her hands, watching the dregs settle.
A silence stretched between them, not heavy, but full. After a long moment, Henry said, “I don’t know how to carry all of this.”
She didn’t answer right away. Then: “We won’t. Not all at once.” She reached out for his hand, and added: “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“That you’ll get well enough to carry just a bit more.”
His fingers tightened around hers. “As long as you’re beside me.” Then his expression shifted, just slightly. “Anyway, my first goal is to get well enough to make love to you for an entire night.”
Liesl kissed him. “Darling, knowing us, that might happen far too soon. And then who would hear Louisa and James? Defiling their hospital ward?”
Henry smirked. “Elisabeth, knowing them, Louisa and James would probably design a medal for it. ‘Gallantry in Bed, Under Fire.’”
She buried her face in his chest, laughing and half-crying. They would find a way. They had to.
They were sent home with Sulpha and strict recommendations. The beds were needed more than ever, and they were needed outside. Their home only had minor blast damage: a few windows had to be boarded up, the wall bore the signs of bomb splitters, but that was absolutely nothing. Some of the beautiful Georgian mansions around them did survive; others did not. The sight of the almost destroyed Whitehead house, which was dear to them for the memories it held, was painful, even though it was just walls and things, as Georg had said.
The King’s equerry had left confirmation that personnel for the exhibition had already been assigned. More unexpected was a handwritten note from the entire Royal Family, signed even by the Princesses. There was a line by the two Princesses especially for George and Mary Agatha, and another brief but warm message from Sir Winston and much of the War Cabinet. They all wished them strength and peace.
Davies was buried quickly, as so many Blitz victims were. His siblings, nephews, and nieces came; so did the Haverstones. Henry paid for it all and spoke of the man’s final act of loyalty—of his years of quiet courage and sarcastic wit. It mattered that his family had loved him. But it didn’t undo the fact that they had lost someone who had become something close to a friend.
Cecil’s funeral was a different affair. His wife and children accepted Henry’s offer: Cecil would rest among their ancestors at Haverstone Hall. Marianne and Ricky arrived straight from Norfolk without the children. The ceremony was stark, dignified, and agonising.
Henry cried—for the boy he’d once raced ponies with, the boy who had hidden under the stairs during storms. Then, he and Liesl disappeared to share some intimate moments with Marianne and Ricky.
They hugged them tightly, and looked at them with worry. “One can see on your face the terrible months you have behind you. And our condolences again for Kurt. We couldn’t do them in person.”
Henry nodded. “I understand you now, Ricky. And yet… even though Elisabeth and I will stay here longer, I don’t think we’ll ever be able to shut ourselves up at Haverstone and pretend the world isn’t breaking.”
Ricky placed a hand on his shoulder. “Henry, we’re different. And that’s all right.”
Marianne added gently, “Just be careful, brother. Your children need you. Your wife needs you. As tasteless as it may sound—George is your only heir now. Cecil’s children are in line after him.”
Henry sat down, hiding his face behind his hands. He winced, then muttered, “Ow—forgot the damned stitches. But honestly—tell me this. Is God a fascist? Because He seems awfully fond of their side lately.”
Liesl stopped him. “Our vicar just had a stroke and doesn’t know why. And my mother would surely feel rather offended, too. Discuss it with the vicar if you must, Henry. Don’t keep it all inside, and don’t make hypotheses on your own. It will not help you. And don’t confuse silence from heaven with approval. Even the angels are shell-shocked these days.”
“Elisabeth, love, I am just so tired… and full of pain.”
“Which is why we’ll stay here for as long as we need it. Marianne and Ricky are staying here for a while, too.”
“We are not leaving you alone, brother.” Marianne squeezed Henry’s hand.
It wasn’t much, and sometimes it even got sadder, when they tried to remember their glorious days with the gang, a time when they still thought their gestures and their politics could save Europe. But Marianne and Ricky forced them to talk, and not just between themselves. Marianne, especially, told Henry that it was normal to feel conflicted about Cecil, and that the fact that he did feel something meant he was a good man. Human, but good.
Liesl’s head rested on her husband’s chest. He was holding her tightly—almost as he had that night in the cellar.
“This time,” she murmured, “I’ve defeated all your anticipation-building strategies, darling.”
“I always knew you’d be a mischievous Countess,” he replied. “That’s why I married you.”
“I do miss organising parties… crashing others. Life’s changed so much. Some got married, others volunteered or were called up.”
“We’ll party again, darling. We will. It won’t be the same, but we’ll find a way. In the meantime, I think our creative approach to rationing offers enough diversion.”
“That, and what we just did.”
“I do still have the stitches. I am a hero!”
She slapped his chest, laughing. “You silly man. Hero of the bedroom, maybe!”
They burst into the kind of laughter that brought back their early days. It lingered, then softened into quiet.
“We’re still us,” Liesl said. “But we’ve changed.”
Henry looked up at the bed’s canopy. “That’s probably the secret—to everything. Your parents, us… everyone.”
“You mean the secret to love? Or to surviving all this?”
“Both.”
Liesl sighed. “It’s just… sad. That Kurt and Davies never found a love like ours.”
“Darling, Brigitta said Kurt was happy with Klara at university—for a while, at least. He got his heart broken, yes, but it mattered. It counted.”
He paused. “I’d feel sorrier for Davies—though perhaps he had a secret love. And… for Cecil.”
Liesl understood.
She stroked his chest gently, and he knew no more words were needed.
Louisa caressed her husband’s chest—one of her favourite places. They were curled up on their cot in the cellar, as usual, sharing warmth in every way they could. The cot had become their bedroom since the nightly raids.
James ran his fingers through her hair with one hand; the other traced those legs he adored.
“Combining love and the fight against humidity,” she quipped. “Could be our next paper.”
“Let’s not forget how it helps us sleep—even if Jerry drops an entire load of bombs on our heads.”
“And to think, in the beginning, we were embarrassed over a few broken slides—victims of passion in the lab. Now, making love among the rubble is practically patriotic.”
“We haven’t actually made love among the rubble,” James said, mock-offended. “Come on, Lou. Even we have limits.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if we do, before this is all over. Still—we shouldn’t complain. We’ve managed to carry on with our marriage, our work… with very few interruptions. We’re lucky.”
James sighed. “But I do look forward to seeing you terrorising undisciplined students again.” He smiled against her temple. “And to buying you stockings to remove—very slowly.”
“Which, if done in a lab with the door unlocked, would be a new way to terrorise students. Disciplined or not.”
“We still have big plans for our research, though. After the war. It wouldn’t do if we got expelled.”
“Statistically, we’re doing well. I’ve already been expelled once. Someone in the family’s already been blitzed. If we don’t survive or I get expelled again, we’d be a statistical anomaly!”
Then a pause. “It seems so long ago,” Louisa said softly. “Summer of 1933. Hitler had just seized power, and I was being thrown out by his cheap Austrian knockoff. Kurt was alive—just got his first girlfriend in the most scandalous way. Then I left for England.”
“Careful, darling,” James murmured. “It’s good to remember. But when you drift too far into it, and I see you hurt… I hurt too. We can’t go back. Not even to the day we got together, though you and I would happily relive it. Or any day after that and before the war, especially 1938.”
He kissed the crown of her head.
“I know,” Louisa whispered. “Do you think the hospital would let me discipline students again—just to help with my grief?”
James arched an eyebrow. “If a report or paper suggested it worked...”
They smiled into the dark. They had always carried something of the Blitz spirit in them. So they found their way—through touch, through teasing, through stubborn hope.
Friedrich waited for Nancy to come out. Patients were being transferred to Hill End again, which always meant overtime for the nurses.
The moment he saw her, he smiled—and she did too.
He reached out, she took his hand, and they kissed briefly before hurrying toward the Tube—eager to get home before dark. Even with him in uniform and their daughter away in Woking, these walks still felt like a gift. They usually had two or three days a week together in London, working in the air raid and emergency ward. Then Nancy would head to Sarah, and Friedrich joined them whenever he had enough leave—sometimes staying there, sometimes going on all together to Guildford to see the rest of the family.
They were privileged, and they were fighting together—growing together. As a couple, as professionals, as parents.
Friedrich never complained about the complications of travel or the hours of sleep he gave up to reach Surrey. He could have been posted far away for years—or not come back at all. Instead, he was in London, sleeping at home. And when his chest ached with the pain that Kurt’s loss caused him, most of the time he had his dear wife near, sometimes even his daughter, if not also his parents and younger siblings.
Friedrich and Nancy didn’t even complain about sleeping in the cellar—just like Louisa and James did. Louisa, of course, had explained their strategy for surviving the damp and sleeping through the Luftwaffe. Nancy had thanked her wholeheartedly. Friedrich had done so, too—though with a mix of polite embarrassment and keen interest.
And when they, too, lay on their cot in the cellar—still warm from their love—they would talk quietly before sleep took them. The smell of the damp walls, of the timber, and of the sandbags had almost become their friend.
Nancy was curled up in Friedrich’s arms, her cheek resting over his heart. For all her strength—for all the ways she had stormed through life—she loved feeling protected by her Austrian knight. And Friedrich loved being the one to protect her.
“I am glad we are going together to Woking this week. Sarah will be so happy to see us arrive together!” She planted a kiss on Friedrich’s broad chest.
Friedrich’s smile carried over to his voice. “Our little earthquake. She is obsessed with climbing. Her Austrian heritage is showing, and your parents are not exactly happy.”
“Your mother is! She already has plans to bring her on a mountain as soon as she is old enough.”
Friedrich thought about it. What mountains was his mother thinking of? “Do you think it will be the Peak District or the Alps? I hope we will be able to holiday on the Alps one day.”
“Of course we will. And you’ll show me and our children your old home. This will end. You know it will.” She caressed him.
“And we will have a great party, like the one Kurt would have organised. It will still hurt, but we will do it, and have fun.”
Nancy was happy that, finally, Friedrich meant his words. All of them, of course: not just the pain, but the party. “That’s exactly as you say. We’ll never forget him—and that’s exactly why we’ll celebrate.”
“And you will be the most stunning woman there. I’ll buy you the most beautiful dress.” Friedrich was always the romantic.
“Rationing might scupper that part, Friedrich.”
“Not if you have Henry and Liesl in the family.”
They finally laughed sincerely.
“And anyway,” Friedrich added, yawning, “if I have to fight the Jerries and ration books at the same time, at least I get to end the day in bed with you.” He kissed her.
Nancy poked him. “That’s not in the King’s Regulations.”
“Good,” he said, pulling her closer. “Then I’ll just wave the Austrian passport instead of the British one if someone complains.”
“What did you do with the German one—the one you were forced to use to come here?”
“We’ll use it to light the bonfire at that victory party. Or ask Gitti if one of her RAF friends might tie it to a bomb. You know—old passports should always be returned to the issuing office.”
“Ah, Lieutenant Dr Very Proper. Always following regulations—even in revenge.”
“I’ll show you proper!”
Nancy’s laughter was muffled by his kisses.
Georg and Maria had become the steady thread keeping the family in touch during those difficult months. Letters passed through their hands; news was carefully collected and shared over the phone if not on paper. All of them found comfort in Maria’s thoughtful observations—always warm, always balanced—and in her quiet praise.
There was relief in hearing that Henry and Liesl were slowly getting back on their feet. That Friedrich and Nancy had found a way to make room for everything: duty, love, grief, and hope. That Louisa and James, despite their early dreams of research, had accepted more clinical work with quiet resolve. That Martha, ever the pivot, was still typing, correcting, translating at all hours in the War Rooms.
Brigitta and Gretl, both in uniform, wrote often—but mostly to ask about everyone else. And the four younger siblings, despite missing their older sibling who could not visit, carried themselves with pride. They kept up their studies, held each other up. They were growing up faster than they should—but they weren’t faltering.
And yet, for Georg and Maria, it wasn’t easy to summon that famed Blitz spirit. Not always. Not in the quiet of the evening. Not as parents. Not after this.
There was one thing Maria had kept to herself, until this moment.
“You know, Georg,” she began softly, “when I first met Gromi, we talked about many things. But one thing stayed with me. She still mourned Agathe deeply. It struck me—how one can fall in love again, remarry, build a whole new life... and yet, a child is never replaced.”
She hesitated. “After the funeral, I wondered why I never once thought, ‘If only I could conceive again—to fill the hole.’ Not for a moment. Then I understood, because I had seen it in Gromi. No one can replace Kurt.”
Georg reached for her hand and held it.
“Maria,” he said, “I hope you don’t think I ever saw you as a replacement. Especially not now, after fifteen years together.”
“I know,” she nodded. “You’ve always made that clear. You—and Gromi too, in her own way—always pointed out how different Agathe and I are. That’s what makes our love real. But… as for Kurt… you know what I meant.”
“I understand,” he said. “I just wanted to be sure. Life has tested us again and again, and I didn’t want you to carry a burden that has no place in our life. But I want you to know—I see you. I see what you're carrying. About our Kurt.”
He paused, his voice quiet.
“Losing Agathe broke my heart,” he said. “But I found you, and I found joy again. Losing Kurt... there are still no words. It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Maria swallowed hard. “It is. For all of us. Even the children. Liesl has written that she’s worried about Brigitta—that she’s in a very dark place. And no one pretends it’s easy. But they’re trying. We all are.”
“We have to,” Georg said. “We owe it to him.”
They sat in silence for a moment, their hands still entwined. The candlelight flickered.
“Maybe our Blitz spirit is just that—we go on loving, even in the dark. Martha says Churchill interprets it as ‘keep buggering on’. That’s what we are doing, in our own way.”
Georg finally laughed. “Maria, when your Ottakring side emerges, it’s always a surprise with you!”
Maria joined in the laughter. “Sir Winston said that!”
“It’s still not a particularly elegant expression!”
And he inelegantly hugged his wife, still sharing in their laughter. Outside, the wind shifted. Inside, for a little while, they simply stayed close—grieving, laughing, enduring.
The Commonwealth War Graves Commission headstone for Kurt arrived in a sturdy wooden crate, its smooth Portland stone gleaming even in the dim light of the hall. They carefully unwrapped it, running their fingers reverently over the crisply carved letters of Kurt's name, rank, and the RAF emblem. The letter accompanying the standard war grave headstone outlined the proper procedure for its placement at the cemetery.
The headstone was beautiful in its austerity. And yet—they were sorry that the inscription was so strictly regulated. No date of birth. Just the date of death.
Beneath the RAF wings and after his service number, it read:
Flying Officer
Kurt von Trapp
Royal Air Force
2nd October 1940 Age 25
✝︎
Beloved son and brother
Requiem æternam
Anna murmured, “It sounds as if only his death mattered. I know he died a hero. But he lived, too. He was loved for twenty-five years. Uncle Frankie said Agathe was so happy the moment she first held him. And the birthdays. All those cakes we made, the hugs and the kisses.”
Florian said gently, “We might add a small wooden cross, with both dates. Maybe the Commission won’t object. We could include the places, too—Zell am See, Austria and Longfield, Kent.” Tommy nodded, looking at his toy Spitfire in silence.
Maria and Georg exchanged a look. “We can make it look like a decoration,” Georg said. “Almost like a flower.”
Tommy suggested, “This time, I’ll help you too. At least with the colours!” His parents mussed his silky blond hair in approval.
Karoline added, “Should we ask Friedrich and Gretl to come for the setting of the stone, if they can get away?”
Maria nodded. “Brigitta will come too. She’d brave a raid. And maybe others from the RAF will come with her. Lauren, too. We’ll take photos for those who can’t.”
They set the stone in early April, on a quiet morning that smelled of thawing earth and wet larch needles.
Friedrich, Nancy, and little Sarah came—Friedrich holding his daughter tightly, and Nancy holding them both. Gretl and Brigitta, too. From Biggin Hill, Brigitta had brought Wing Commander Dickinson, and Andrews and Murray from the ground crew.
“Hayes will visit on his own,” Dickinson explained.
“And Lauren didn’t want to intrude,” said Brigitta. “She thought it should be a family moment.”
Georg and Frank took photos—some for the family album, some for those too far to come.
The wind shifted. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. Someone cleared their throat and then said nothing.
Grief was a strange thing. Georg and Maria could see it on their children’s faces —especially Brigitta. They could imagine the reaction of the others to the post with the photo. ‘Set in stone’ existed as expression for a reason. It marked what they knew. And it was the final headstone. It would still be there as others from the clan would be buried there, years from now—the ones who wanted to and were allowed to.
A stone was also easier to touch. His name was carved elegantly, and would not fade, as long as the grave was looked after.
Hayes and Lauren probably had their own ways to live their grief. There would still be a kind word and a cup of tea for them, when they came, as for anyone else. Maybe a hug, if they allowed it.
And one day, it would all get better—or at least, they hoped.
Notes:
Brigitta's journey through grief remains a central thread. The next chapter will reveal whether Liesl's suspicions about her being in a "dark place" are correct.
whiskersonkittens on Chapter 1 Fri 09 May 2025 12:04PM UTC
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BlackandPinkUnicornGuardian on Chapter 1 Fri 09 May 2025 12:39PM UTC
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