Memories Before and After the Sound of Music Page 5

  When the load was full, they took it to Gromi’s icehouse. Inside the men arranged the ice blocks in such a way as to form a flight of stairs, like shelves, where the cook could set baskets, pots, or boxes of food. The ice lasted until the next winter. Only the cook had the key to the icehouse. In the early summer, wild strawberries grew over the grassy top of the icehouse. I was the only one who knew about the berries and used to pick them as a present for Mamá.

  During the long, cold winter months, Gromi supplied a special entertainment for her family and guests. She cut puzzles for them. She had a special jigsaw for making puzzles set up in the living room. She brought out an interesting picture mounted on a wooden backing, cut it into many small pieces that were not easily distinguished from one another, and laid them all into a box. Then she set up a card table. Family members and visiting guests searched out the elusive puzzle pieces and fit them into special places so the picture could slowly emerge.

  Gromi was a gifted person with a well-rounded education. She was interested in everything around her. She had been tutored at home, according to the custom in aristocratic families of her time. Her talents were many and varied. She would spin wool into yarn on her spinning wheel. Gromi could also read music and play the piano well, sometimes playing duets with Mamá or Uncle Franky. Gromi created and ran a well-organized household and participated in raising us children.

  Those early years spent at the Erlhof, under the watchful eyes of Mamá, Gromi, and the aunts, were indeed precious ones. We learned to live as a family, where values were important. We learned to entertain ourselves, and we heard the first sounds of music that later became so much a part of our lives.

  Two Special Occasions

  The Christmas of 1914 was the first Christmas I remember. I was not quite two years old. I stood in front of the Christmas tree, which in its full height stretched from the floor to the ceiling. The soft light of its candles brightened the room. In its glow, I stood alone. A tall, slender man came toward me. He was blond, wearing a bluish-gray uniform with a high green collar and green trim on the sleeves; it was the gala uniform of the Emperor’s House Regiment.

  I heard someone say, “This is Uncle Werner.” I looked up at him.

  He bent down and gently kissed me on my forehead. I knew immediately that he was a very kind person, but I never saw him again. Uncle Werner was killed in an offensive by the Russians against the Austrian troops in Galicia on May 2, 1915. In my memory, though, Uncle Werner is still as alive today as he was on that long ago Christmas Eve.

  In Austria at that time, children learned that it was the Christ Child who came at Christmastime, bringing gifts with Him. Angels were His helpers. A room was set aside to give the Christ Child privacy, and children knew they should not disturb Him.

  In the Erlhof, our nursery was on the second floor. From there a big open staircase led directly into the big living room, which was called “the Hall.” A week before Christmas, the Hall was closed off from the staircase. We were told not to use the staircase because the Christ Child with His angels was preparing a surprise for Christmas Eve in the Hall. Everyone whispered and wondered what the angels might be doing, now that Christmas was so close.

  “Silent Night…”

  On Christmas Eve, we children were dressed in our best clothes for the holy occasion; expectation was at its height. Then, there it was—the sound of a silver bell announcing that it was time for us to go to the Hall. Slowly, with rapidly beating hearts, we went down the wide staircase. Oh, wonder! There stood the Christmas tree in its entire splendor. The Hall was illuminated in soft candlelight, magnified a million times by the brightly colored balls of glass and a glistening veil of angel hair. We just stood, taking it all in.

  As we edged closer to the tree, we detected cookies hanging on golden strings. Also there was candy wrapped in colored paper, fringed at each end and fastened to the tree with silver strings. Birds of paradise with long glass tails and other colorful ornaments were visible through the fine veil of angel hair. All of this was even more wonderful because we children believed that heaven came down to earth in the person of Jesus in order to leave us presents and share His wonders.

  Beside the tree, lying in a manger, was the Baby Jesus. He was smiling and held out His arms to us. His hair was curly and light, the color of the straw He was laid on. I was glad to see that He was not lying on the straw itself but on a fine white doily with lace edging. I wished so much that the Baby Jesus in the manger was real instead of waxen, and that He could move around as real babies do.

  After a few moments of admiration, the entire household, family and staff, sang together “Silent Night, Holy Night.” Then each person was shown the place where his or her presents were laid out on white tablecloths, covering the furniture. Everything was a surprise. Of course, we did what all children do at Christmas; we showed our presents to our parents. They admired everything, just as if they had never seen these things before. The girls usually received dolls, for which Mamá made clothes, and doll furniture. I cannot remember many of the boys’ presents, but at least one Christmas a hobby horse and a stable with animals were given to Werner.

  The picture of my uncle, the Christmas tree, and me remains indelibly imprinted in my mind. I will always cherish this memory of my Uncle Werner on that wonderful Christmas Eve of 1914.

  Another memorable event from my childhood took place at the Erlhof when I was five and a half years old. I met my great-grandmother, Countess Agathe Breuner, for the first and only time. The occasion? It was her eighty-fifth birthday, and a celebration was arranged for her at the Erlhof. I remember seeing a photograph, taken earlier, which showed the four generations with the name of Agathe. It pleased my grandmother that her mother lived long enough to have this picture taken. I was the baby in the photo. When Great-grandmother came to visit at the Erlhof, she was accompanied by friends and relatives because Great-grandfather had died many years before. At my great-grandmother’s birthday celebration, I remember my mother’s cousin, Tante Lorlein Auersperg, and one of Papá’s officers and friends, Erwin Wallner, who later married Tante Lorlein. Erwin Wallner had a beautiful baritone voice and loved to sing arias, and he would do so at the drop of a hat.

  I remember my great-grandmother as a very old lady in black, a little stooped over, and with many wrinkles in her face. She wore a white round lace cap on her head with a black ribbon woven along the edge of it. I have no recollection of her personality, but she must have been greatly loved by her family to receive such a grand birthday celebration.

  Weeks before she came, Mamá, Tante Mary, and Tante Connie sewed costumes for us and themselves to create tableaus as part of the festivities after lunch. The performance was set up in the barrack on the old tennis court. There was a little stage on which was placed an enormous wooden picture frame. In it we were positioned like statues, dressed in old-fashioned costumes. The grown-ups staged a tableau of a pirate ship with its crew. Maria and I were costumed in empire dresses, which were long with high waists and had pink sashes. We also wore matching bonnets made of white chiffon with a pattern of little pink roses. Rupert wore a blue-and-white-striped suit in the same style with a black mortarboard hat. I had a second costume that was my favorite. I was dressed as a medieval page in dark red velvet knickers and a matching tunic edged with fur that had a belt with a knife on the side. I wore little red velvet slippers edged with fur and a red velvet beret also edged with fur with a red feather stuck sideways into its band.

  Gromi had a stack of old-fashioned magazines, Münchner Bilder Bogen, which were actually artistic picture books for grown-ups with gorgeous illustrations of historical events. There were also fashion pictures from different centuries with pages of costumes from different regions and countries of Europe. This hardcover magazine, edited in Germany, was probably the inspiration for our tableaus.

  Before the big performance, I saw the whole party walking from the main house to the barrack, where the stage and seats were set up. Wern
er, who was almost three years old, ran ahead of the party, singing clearly with a booming voice, “Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden” (I had a comrade), a song that was sung by the Austrian population and soldiers throughout the war. Fräulein Zimmermann, our governess at the time, composed a long poem and made me memorize it. I did memorize it but only by sound. I had no idea what I was saying. Fräulein had instructed me to stand up at the festive dinner table, ring my glass with my dessert spoon, and recite the poem. But, oh, after a few sentences, I had forgotten what came next, and I got stuck! There was dead silence. Embarrassment gripped me, as it did the whole dinner table. No one said a word; no one helped me, and I burst into tears. From then on and even well into adulthood, I remained tongue-tied in front of strangers. Fortunately I eventually conquered this affliction.

  The next morning, a home Mass was arranged for all the guests. Because of a space problem, the Mass was held in the barrack where we had staged the still life performances. The priest had come from Zell am See and, during Mass, distributed Holy Communion. I did not know what Mass was all about and thought he was giving out peppermint candy! Since everyone went forward to get this “candy,” so did I. But before I could reach the priest, someone caught me, and I was told I could not have it. Later my mother explained to me that I would have to wait until I was older to receive what they received, and she said that it was not peppermint candy.

  Two years later, on November 20, 1920, Great-grandmother died in Goldegg bei St. Pölten, in the home of her daughter Lori. Gromi went to the funeral.

  Fräulein Zimmermann told me that I must write a sympathy letter to my grandmother. I had never written a letter in my seven and a half years of life. I was stuck with a problem. Somehow I connected dying with going to heaven. Why was my grandmother sad when her mother went to heaven? Why should I write to tell my grandmother that I was sorry that her mother had died? She went to heaven. My grandmother must know that. Why should I write to her about something that she knows? What can I tell her that she does not know already? She is the grandmother who is so much older and wiser than I am.

  I do not remember what I finally wrote or whether the governess dictated something to me. But I remember distinctly thinking these thoughts and the conflict that arose from the command that I should write this letter. I am sure my great-grandmother would have helped me and consoled me in my distress if she could have. But she was in heaven. I did not understand grief that can override the understanding of things.

  Although it may seem unusual for a young child to have such vivid recollections, the images of both that very special Christmas and my great-grandmother’s visit will always remain with me.

  The Postwar Era

  On November 11, 1918, the war was over. Our soldiers came back from the front in troop trains, which were overcrowded. Some were so eager to get home that they climbed onto the roofs of the railroad cars. But they did not make it home because they were swept off the trains or were beheaded by the entrances to the tunnels, which took the trains through the mountains.

  The Austro-Hungarian Empire was in shambles. Hungary separated itself from Austria, as did Czechoslovakia and Croatia. Istria and South Tyrol were given to Italy by the Treaty of Versailles. Emperor Karl I of Austria went into exile with his family in 1919. The pinch of hard times was felt by all as food, textiles, and other commodities became scarce.

  The borders between the Austrian provinces were closed. Anyone traveling from one province to the other was subjected to a body search if suspected by the train personnel of smuggling food. All necessities of life were difficult to obtain. Because of this on Sundays and holy days, in spite of all restrictions, droves of people went from the cities into the country to visit their “relatives” on farms in order to get vegetables, fruits, butter, and meat. If people were caught hamstering (black-marketing), the food would be confiscated, or high duties would be imposed on the items. The economy was so deflated that the government printed emergency money, which was worth nothing.

  Austria was impoverished to the bone. Poor people were given a patch of land (Schräbergarten) on the peripheries of the cities where they could grow their own vegetables and fruits. Each patch of land contained a homemade shack for tools and was surrounded by a wire fence.

  In those first days after the war, people ate dogs, cats, rabbits, and squirrels. They caught ducks and geese from other people’s ponds. They ate anything just to keep alive. The bread was made of a dark crust stuffed with cornmeal that was mixed with sawdust. Materials for clothing were mixed with paper. String was made of paper, twisted tightly, but of course it dissolved when it got wet.

  Although we had a very good cook, she could not prepare the meat. No matter what she did, it was as tough as shoe leather—especially the boiled beef. After the adults had finished the meal, we children would sit for hours and hours, chewing and chewing the unchewable meat. In those days, children had to eat what was put on their plates, whether they liked it or not, and could not leave the table until their plates were cleared. The adults seemed to be able to chew the meat, but we could not. Spending hours into the afternoon, my sister Maria suffered greatly, battling with this tough meat.

  The pork was even worse. One could say, “Well, it is better to have tough meat than none.” But that did not solve the problem of chewing it! The pork was not only tough but also unappetizing. It took all my willpower to put a bite of pork shoulder into my mouth. I sat after lunch—which is the main meal in Austria served at 1:00 p.m.—and chewed and chewed and chewed. When Mamá’s maid saw me still eating alone in the dining room around three o’clock one afternoon, she asked me what was the matter. I said I could not chew the meat. She asked me, “Would you let me eat this piece of meat?” referring to the meat that I had already chewed and placed back on the plate. I said, “Yes, if you want it.” She took it and ate it, finishing all the meat on my plate, thus allowing me to leave the table. I embraced her for this unselfish deed.

  Sauerkraut was another dish that was not easy to swallow because of the very strong smell. The odor was due to the method of preparation. Onion sauce accompanied every meat dish, supposedly to enhance it. Unfortunately some of us did not like the onion sauce. Another very healthy, but hated, vegetable was the red beet. Beets came from Gromi’s vegetable garden. We did not like them, although we were told that they contained iron, which was needed for a healthy body. There were also the yellow beets (die Rucken), which were raised primarily to feed the pigs. But what do you do if there is a food shortage of other, more appetizing foods? You eat die Rucken. In those days, Werner prayed, “Lieber Gott lass Mehlspeis wachsen!” (Dear God, please let desserts grow!).

  Sugar and flour were Papá’s presents to the family. In Hungary the sugar was made from sugar beets. Since Papá’s route home from the navy took him through Hungary, he was able to buy some sugar to bring back to Austria, where it was a thing of the past. He gave some to Gromi and the rest to us. He also brought some flour—real, white flour that was not mixed with sawdust. Pure, white flour was a precious commodity in Austria and unavailable for a long time. Mamá put it into a wooden bin for storage, to be used slowly as the need arose. To her dismay, she discovered only a few days later that mice had gnawed a hole in one corner of the bin and had helped themselves to the flour, leaving their droppings mixed in. What to do? Since the flour was so precious, Mamá and the cook sieved the droppings out of the flour. I remember watching the procedure, and it took some time to accomplish the task. Mamá then put the cleaned flour into tin boxes.

  One morning I heard Mamá say that she must take Werner to Vienna because he had “bow legs.” As a result of the poor nourishment during the war years, his legs needed to be straightened by a specialist. Of course, I wanted to go to Vienna too. I must have heard stories from Gromi about how beautiful and exciting Vienna was. Mamá told me I could not come along because there was nothing wrong with my legs. “But,” she said, “if you are good and don’t cry and will wait until you are older
, you will travel to Vienna and to many other places.” With that promise, I resolved to wait until my time for traveling came. Mamá had no idea that she had made a prediction that did come true many years later.

  The soldiers who came back from the war did not find a homeland that took care of their needs, a homeland where peace and security would soon help them recover from what they had suffered in body and soul. Instead, they came back to a boiling pot of social changes. There were no jobs, no food, no clothing. Many soldiers who had fought bravely for their country were walking from door to door, sometimes in rags, on crutches, begging for food. The soldiers and sailors who went from door to door were also looking for a little work so they could buy cigarettes and anything they needed, perhaps a railroad ticket to visit their relatives. I remember one Italian navy man who came to our door and asked my father whether he could work for him. He advertised himself in Italian as “forte come un toro” (strong like a bull). My father was intrigued by his ingenuity and hired him to do garden work. He had dark curly hair and spoke only Italian. We called him “Toro.” He stayed a while and then went on.

  After the end of the war, the Austrian Navy ceased to exist, and Yugoslavia and Italy took over its ships. Some of our naval officers who were Italians or Yugoslavs were willing to serve under the new regimes. But for Papá, that was impossible. His loyalty was to Austria, victorious or defeated. Before he came home, we were told that the war was over. Papá was coming home for good, but he was very sad, and we were told to be very kind to him. Only later did I realize what an adjustment my father had to make from his life as the captain of a submarine to the position of the head of a family with five young children. When Papá returned to the Erlhof, he wanted to find a home for us as soon as possible because we had been living in Gromi’s house.