Memories Before and After the Sound of Music Page 4

  When Rupert was six years old, life became more serious as he and I “graduated” from the nursery to our first governess and teacher. Rupert had to start first grade. There was no elementary school nearby, so a young teacher, Fräulein Zeiner, was hired to live with us. The lessons took place in the attic of Gromi’s house where Rupert and I shared a room with a balcony. Her duties were not only to teach Rupert but also to see to our daily routine the way Nenni had done. We liked our new governess a lot.

  When I found out that Rupert was going to learn how to write, I asked Fräulein Zeiner if I could learn too. She gave me a copybook with double lines. She then drew the letter i at the beginning of each line, each one with a dot above the top of the stick. I was eager to copy them. Not knowing how important it was to write the letters exactly as they were supposed to be, I took some artistic liberty and made a little curl of smoke on the top of the stick instead of a dot. I thought that would make it look more interesting. I drew the whole page like that with all the little puffs of smoke rising in unison from my page. When I presented the first page of writing I had done, at the age of four and a half, to Fräulein Zeiner, I thought that she would be delighted, but instead she became very angry. She threw the notebook on the floor and told me in no uncertain terms that this was not what I was supposed to write. I broke out in tears and thus ended my first writing lesson.

  Although my first writing lesson was a disappointment to me, I nevertheless remember Fräulein Zeiner with gratitude. She taught me something that was immeasurably more valuable than learning to write. One day, as she was taking my siblings and me on the usual afternoon walk, I saw some little plants, flowers, moss-covered tree roots, and stones on the side of the road. I thought they were beautiful and wanted to know who made them. Fräulein Zeiner said, “God made them.” “Who is God?” I asked her. She said, “God is a Spirit. We cannot see Him. He can do everything He wants to, and He knows everything. He made the trees, the flowers, the grass, and every living thing.” At this young age, I was so close to the ground that I could see things that adults did not easily notice. I was elated when she told me about this God who knows everything and could do anything He wanted to do.

  But then something occurred to me that made me feel sorry for Him. I had to tell her: “Fräulein, God cannot see what He has made because He is a Spirit!” Fräulein Zeiner told me that once He became a man and then He could see all that He had created.

  “Where is He now?” I wanted to know. She answered, “One day, long ago, He was killed.” That made me even sadder. When she saw that, she quickly added, “But now He resides in a little house in the church behind a white veil.” That made me happy again. From then on, every time we went to church I looked to see this veil she was talking about. Although I could never figure out how to find “this God” behind the veil, I still believed that He lived in the church in this little house on the altar, and that was enough to give me a feeling of great reverence when I entered a church. From that time on, I had a tender love for this almighty and all-knowing God who made all living things and resides behind a white veil in the church. I never forgot this walk with Fräulein Zeiner. Even though her “theology” was not one hundred percent accurate, Fräulein Zeiner, with this simple explanation of God, instilled in my heart the love for our Creator.

  One day Fräulein Zeiner told everyone that she was planning on entering a convent. She put a towel over her head to show us how she would look as a nun. Before she left, I told her to be sure to visit us, and in a typical child’s manner, I asked her to bring us oranges, lemons, and sugar cubes. All of these items were very scarce. Little did I know that once she entered the convent, she would not be able to visit us or bring us gifts.

  In addition to having a governess, we had a live-in piano teacher who had taught my mother and her brother Franky when they were children. When I heard that Fräulein Kupka would be giving lessons to Rupert, I asked Mamá whether I could learn to play the piano too. My enthusiasm originated from hearing Uncle Franky sit at the piano and play without looking at any music. I thought all one had to do was to sit down in front of the piano, put one’s hands on the keys, and play. Then it dawned on me that one probably learned to do this by taking piano lessons. I was then only four and a half years old.

  I could hardly wait to begin. The wonderful day came when I sat in front of the baby grand piano. I was sure that Fräulein Kupka would work the miracle of teaching me a waltz or some other beautiful piece of music. Instead she tried to teach me to read the music, letter by letter, note by note, sound by sound. Surely this might be a good way to teach children who are able to connect the letters, sounds, and symbols plus find the sounds on the keyboard, but it didn’t work for me at my young age. I tried, yet I could not read the music. I was sure that I would be able to play any song I had heard, but try as I would, I could not connect the music symbols on the page with the sounds on the keyboard.

  When I could not learn in this way, Fräulein Kupka became very angry and hit my fingers with a pencil and finally yelled at me that she would leave if I did not do better. I left the piano in tears, thus ending my early piano lessons. Although I can now play the piano by ear and even improvise—I play whatever I hear in my mind—I never learned to read music well.

  Teachers in those days must have thought of children as little adults. Much misery could have been spared if the teachers of that generation had understood a little child psychology.

  About the same time as my first writing and piano lessons, Gromi granted me a very special privilege. I was allowed to go into her “boudoir”—but only when she invited me to come in. It was not really a boudoir; it was her very private office where she sat at her antique rolltop desk and where one could see all kinds of beautiful and interesting things, such as framed photographs, vases with flowers, memorabilia, and little figurines. Gromi told me, “You may look with your eyes but not with your hands.” That was my first lesson in respecting other people’s property.

  In her boudoir, Gromi would tell me stories about her family, which I sensed were important to her but not so much to me. But I did not dare say I did not want to listen for fear of hurting her feelings. Now I am glad that she told me these stories. Although I could not even visualize at the time what she was telling me and why, these memories remained with me and have helped me to write this book.

  Included in the stories that she told me were those of her parents. Count August Breuner and Countess Agathe Breuner owned a majestic house on the Singerstrasse in the city of Vienna that was known as the Breuner Palace. There the Breuners spent the winters. Thus, they were able to enjoy the arts—concerts, the theater, and the opera—and take part in whatever social events happened to be on the agenda at the imperial court in Vienna. They also entertained in the ornate rooms of their own palace. In it was an apartment where Gromi stayed when she had to go into the city to see her dentist or to go shopping.

  From her childhood Gromi knew what a well-run household was. She grew up in the Castle Grafenegg,1 a large estate in the country. Her mother and her staff managed the household; Gromi’s father and his staff took care of the grounds. Gromi, therefore, had a pattern by which to set up her own household on a somewhat smaller scale. She knew how it should function and how to make things happen.

  Gromi conducted her big household with wisdom and authority. She supervised her garden and enjoyed watching her grandchildren arrive and grow. She also painted landscapes of various views on the premises and the likenesses of some of the people there. She invited her neighbor, Professor Hochenegg, a prominent doctor, to give advice on her family’s health and to discuss matters of politics in which she was interested. Gromi wrote long letters to her many relatives.

  Gromi was never idle; her day was well planned with different activities. She gave directions daily to the cook, the maids, the butler, and the gardener. I can still hear them say, “Jawohl, Frau Gräfin” (Very well, Countess). Although she had married a commoner and could have ca
lled herself simply “Mrs. Whitehead,” she kept the title of countess from her maiden name, perhaps for the sake of authority after the death of her husband. Gromi had a quietly firm way with her staff. She was never flustered, nor did she raise her voice. I never witnessed any last-minute rush or excitement. She seemed to be able to take care of everything in good time.

  Around her neck Gromi wore a watch on a long chain. It had a lid, which could be opened by pressing a little knob on the side. It was a golden watch with engravings on the lid. When we came to say, “Good morning, Gromi,” she would take out her watch and hold it out to us and say, “Blow on it.” Then when we blew, the lid would spring open, and we could see the face of the watch. For a long time, we thought the lid opened because we blew on it! It was fun for her as well as for us. Rupert, our scientist, was the first one to discover the real workings of this mystery.

  Gromi knew the importance of self-discipline. She exercised it herself, and she wanted to teach it to us. There was a vegetable garden behind the kitchen house, which was surrounded by a hedge of red and white currant bushes. When the currants were ripe, Gromi would send Rupert and me out with little baskets to pick them, but she impressed upon us that we should not eat any berries while we were picking. In those days, it was considered unhealthy to eat uncooked fruit. Or perhaps she thought we would eat too many!

  Then she would say, “Tilli [the cook] will make Ribisel Eis [currant sorbet].” So we eagerly picked the berries and competed to see who could pick the most in the shortest time. It was a challenge that we were glad to meet. The reward came in the form of the most delicious sorbet made by Tilli. Smooth, sweet, and cold, with the taste of berries without the seeds, it was wonderful!

  Mamá loved gardening. She and her sister Mary did a lot of it at the Erlhof where flower beds ran alongside Gromi’s house. The beds had hollyhocks, larkspur, monkshood, red and white phlox, and foxglove which we were told is poisonous. The entrance to the house was adorned with a flower box filled with a rare hanging azalea known as Goldglocken (golden bells). Gromi was very proud of this plant and made sure that it was well taken care of. Sometimes she watered it herself. The gardener tended the garden paths, which were always flawlessly raked; not one weed showed itself. There were also flowering bushes, spruce trees, tall larches, and ash trees with red berries in the fall. Gromi and her gardener had planted everything and looked after it.

  Taking advantage of such natural beauty, our governess took us on walks to explore the nearby countryside. Part of our daily routine in good weather was hiking on the dirt road along the lake and taking steeper walks up the mountain that rose behind Gromi’s property. We were never unattended on these excursions.

  One of our lake walks took us to the Hotel Bellevue. The hotel had a breathtaking view of the snow-capped mountains across the lake. For us, a unique feature of the hotel was the black bellboy who lived there. A black person was a rarity in Austria, and this bellboy fascinated my sister Maria, who was about four years old. This early fascination would be a foreshadowing of her interests and work as an adult. Many years later, she spent thirty-two years as a lay missionary in Papua, New Guinea, helping the people in their struggles with modern life.

  Another walk led first along the lakeside and then up the steep mountain to the home of the Honigbauer (honey farmer). The only flat spot was the area where the house stood. His farm had a little bit of everything: cows, maybe a horse, chickens, sheep, and goats. In addition to farming, this farmer kept bees, which pollinated his fruit trees. He had apple trees, plum trees, one or two cherry trees, and a pear tree or two. All of these fruits were either preserved in jars or dried for the winter. When we arrived at his house, the farmer’s wife came out smiling and gave the “dear little children” each a slice of home-baked, dark rye bread spread with honey. What a treat that was after our steep climb! Then Fräulein Zeiner bought a jar of honey to take home.

  Sometimes we went with Gromi along the lakeshore on her daily walks. There were geese swimming on the lake, near the shore. When Gromi passed by, they came out of the water and went toward her with outstretched necks, pointing their beaks and hissing at her. Gromi, who always carried a parasol, pointed it at the geese and opened and closed it quickly. That was to tell the geese, “Do not hiss at me. Let me take my walk undisturbed.” They understood and went back into the water. Because of this experience, I later suggested to my father that he should use parasols instead of torpedoes to frighten away the enemy!

  One of the most memorable walks around the area involved a close escape. Mamá took Rupert, then five, and me, three and a half, for a walk to the Sand Riegel, a piece of land at one end of the Zeller Lake. The area was flat and sandy with large blackberry bushes growing all over. Between the blackberry bushes, the grass was lush, which was good for grazing cattle. When we went there for a walk, we always picked blackberries in season. Little hay barns (Heustadel), where the farmer stored the hay for later use, stood here and there. The Heustadel were built from wooden logs spaced apart like a ladder, allowing air to circulate and keep the stored hay dry. The little barn had a shingled roof and a large window. One could easily climb into the haystack through the window using the logs as a foothold.

  On that particular day, the farmer had his bull grazing there. The blackberry bushes must have hidden the bull from Mamá’s view; she did not know he was there. The moment he discovered someone entering his territory the bull charged. Suddenly Mamá noticed him as he raced toward us. She took the two of us under her arms, ran to the nearest Stadel, threw each of us through the window into the hay, and then climbed in herself. Just then the bull arrived. Of course, he could not climb up the logs into the loft. He circled the Stadel several times, snorting. When he saw that the intruders were not to be reached, he finally trotted off. How long we were trapped in the hay log cabin I do not know. But my guess is that the farmer had an eye on the bull, and when he saw him charge, the farmer came to our rescue and sent the bull back to his stable. Mamá then took us home without further incident.

  While our walks showed us the beauties of our world, we started seeing war planes in the sky above. Near the end of the war, the planes appeared over the Zeller Lake. They were the first kind of airplanes used during the war. Although their purpose was unclear to us, Gromi was not taking any chances; we were not going to become targets. The wings of the airplanes were straight and narrow, making them appear like dragonflies high up in the sky. We could see them plainly from the ground. Indeed it was exciting to see them over the lake. Gromi understood their potential danger, however, and would order us to run behind the house and stand flat against the wall when the planes were in the area. Of course, bombs could have been dropped, and we could not have done anything to save ourselves.

  In Gromi’s spacious garden, along the lakeshore, we learned many things from nature’s bounty. In those days there was no radio, television, movie theater, shopping mall, or even electricity. How boring! one might think. But, no, instead we used our imaginations to turn a row of chairs into an express train and a sofa into a hospital.

  The living room in the Erlhof was a perfect spot to “play train.” Gromi’s wicker chairs became passenger cars, with Rupert as conductor. Maria and I were the passengers. The “conductor” gave us tickets, called out stations, and announced that the train had stopped. Then Maria and I stepped off into the “station.”

  On rainy days, we liked to improvise with costumes. We pretended that Rupert was the king, I was the queen, and Maria, the princess. Rupert and I wore gold paper crowns made by Tante Mary, and Maria had a big white bow in her hair. When we tired of these roles, we became father, mother, and child. Rupert had no choice; he was father! I was mother, and Maria, the child.

  Sometimes all the adults came together to play games with us. There were games I liked a lot such as Find the Thimble, Cat and Mouse, and Hide-and-Seek.

  Gromi had a stack of educational magazines from Munich with beautifully colored steel etchings of his
torical scenes and events. They included fairy tales, stories in verse, and scenes from The Iliad and The Odyssey. Papá and Tante Mary acted out the story of Odysseus and the Cyclops, with Papá narrating the exciting tale.

  The winter months brought other forms of entertainment. One day when Papá came home on furlough, he put on his skis and told us to stand behind him on the skis and hold onto his legs. Down we went with him over the gentle slope behind Gromi’s house. That was our first time skiing.

  There were other ways to be entertained in the snow. When it was the right consistency to form snowballs, Mamá and Tante Mary built a large igloo that we could stand in. We helped them make the big snowballs, which they used to form the snow house. Another day they built a snowman with a carrot for his nose and a black top hat. We all had a lot of fun on those winter days.

  Still another winter activity we enjoyed was watching the men cutting ice on the lake. When the lake was frozen over with the ice at least a foot thick, the farmer would take his team of workhorses hitched to a special wooden sled and actually drive onto the ice near the shore. Then he and his men would cut each ice block about twelve by twelve by thirty-six inches, fish the ice blocks out with huge iron hooks on long poles, and load them onto the sled. The whole operation was a fascinating spectacle for the adults and even more so for us children. We watched every move, always fearing that someone might fall into the water or the ice might break with the weight of the heavy horses and the sled. It never did.