Our mamá, Agathe Whitehead von Trapp, was a gentle beauty, calm, natural, and quietly effective. My earliest memory is of her wearing a reddish-brown ankle-length skirt with a white blouse trimmed in red Hungarian embroidery around the neckline, shoulders, and wrists. The blouse was most becoming on her. Once I watched her put up her hair, creating an immaculate hairdo. She combed her brown waves up, wound her long hair into a loose bun on top of her head, and pinned it in place. Then she heated a curling iron over a small flame and curled the ends of her hair in the back and around the sides of her face. To a little girl, this was an extraordinary event because we children did not usually see our mother until she was completely dressed and ready for her day. I admired her greatly.
Mamá was able to run a big household with a cook, maids, and other staff members in a quiet and gentle manner. Every person who knew Mamá loved her and remembered her for years, including the staff. She never said a harsh word. She said what had to be said in a kind, but firm, voice. When she entered the room, it seemed that the sun was rising. I am not surprised that for Papá, it was love at first sight.
Mamá was born in Fiume on June 14, 1890, to John and Agathe Whitehead, and she was one of six children: John, Frank, Agathe,1 Mary, Robert, and Joan. In her parents’ home, the Villa Whitehead, Mamá received an aristocratic upbringing. The household included a large staff. Private tutors and a live-in piano teacher provided Mamá’s education.
Papá told me the story of how he first met Mamá at a party after the launching of the submarine U-5 in 1909. He was one of the invited guests at a social event arranged by Countess Alice Hoyos, Robert Whitehead’s daughter and Agathe’s aunt, to be held following the ceremony. After studying and working all week at the factory, young Georg must have been ready to dress up and go to a party. In those days, any of the guests who were able to perform music were asked to provide the entertainment. Mother Whitehead played the piano very well. She and her daughter Agathe, who played the violin, entertained the guests with their music that very evening.
Georg also came from a musical family. His father frequently attended the opera in Zara, and after returning home, he would sit at the piano and play some of the music he had just heard. Georg himself played the violin, the guitar, and the mandolin. At the party, he was delighted with the music he heard, but he also was impressed with Agathe. As she played the violin, he noticed her beauty and calm spirit. At nineteen she was not only beautiful but also mature and self-assured. Later he would tell me that on this evening he knew she was meant for him.
That night they danced, and Agathe’s mother invited Georg for afternoon tea with the family at their villa in Fiume. Eventually Georg was invited to visit at the Whiteheads’ summer home, the Erlhof. Not far from the house, a brook came down the steep mountainside.
I remember a day when I was about seven years old and Papá took me for a walk near this brook. He was wearing an olive green suit, which I liked very much. He confided in me that this suit was very special to him because he had worn it when he proposed to Mamá. We continued up a little footpath that ran alongside the brook. My father showed me a huge boulder with a clean, flat surface, which stood next to the path. This boulder must have come down from the mountain during the Ice Age. Its rounded edges told the story.
On this rock, Papá and Mamá talked things over and pledged their lives to each other. Soon after this, their engagement was announced. Since Agathe was only nineteen years old, Mother Whitehead suggested that they wait to be married until her daughter was of age. They waited two years. Georg von Trapp and Agathe Whitehead were married in a fairy-tale wedding in Fiume on January 14, 1911.
I recently received a description of this event from the archives in Graz, Austria, that had been written at the time of the wedding by my maternal grandmother, my uncle Franky, and another relative, Margit Kinsky. Written in German, it was a wedding souvenir for the guests. According to this booklet, the wedding festivities took place over a period of three days. My grandmother knew how to organize very well. She was sending her oldest daughter into the world, and it was to be the most wonderful day of her life. Relatives were invited from England, Germany, and Austria. They came by ship across the English Channel and by train from everywhere else. Accommodations had been arranged in the town of Fiume for all the guests.
Papá’s mother, aunt, and grandmother arrived from Pola on January 12. The only function that day was the civil registration for the marriage license.
All the other guests arrived the next day. The harbor was teeming with little boats, known as Barkassen, taking the guests from the train station to the town of Fiume, where the Villa Whitehead was prepared for the wedding festivities. There was great joy and excitement as the guests were greeted. Tea was served at 4:00 p.m. Of course, the trousseau and the many wedding gifts were laid out for all to see.
An administrative official came from the torpedo factory of the bride’s grandfather to congratulate the bride with a cordial address and to present her with a lovely silver jardiniere, or planter. Next, the foreman of the factory workers gave a lovely and meaningful speech to Mamá and brought a beautiful floral arrangement. My grandmother noted that these presentations were for her and her children, a very touching proof of the affection and loyalty shown by the factory staff for the Whitehead family. I am sure that Mamá’s father was greatly missed by his family at this significant event; he had died in 1902.
On the evening of January 13, a delicious buffet was set up in the dining room, and everyone was in high spirits. A party was scheduled for nine o’clock with music and dancing. Twelve members of the navy band, who were selected to entertain with dance music, were placed in the front of the ballroom. Grandmother mentioned that they played as well as the best Viennese band, which is the highest praise any Austrian can give to a band.
The guests were dressed in gala attire. My grandmother, the mother of the bride, wore a white evening dress with a train, a long veil of Venetian lace, and exquisite jewelry. For this affair, the bride-to-be wore a dress of light blue brocade with a train, a diamond tiara (a wedding present from her two older brothers), a diamond brooch, and a pearl necklace. She and the bridegroom in his formal uniform were the most outstanding pair on the dance floor.
All the guests were present, including the representatives from the torpedo factory and many friends from Fiume. The soiree ended at midnight since the wedding was the next day.
During breakfast on the fourteenth, the day of the wedding, a detail of Georg’s submarine crew arrived with a beautiful floral arrangement. Many more flowers and congratulatory notes were delivered for the bride. Grandmother wrote that at 11:00 a.m. the wedding guests assembled at the Austrian Naval Academy. The superintendent of the academy, Captain Schubert, had graciously placed the chapel and the public rooms at the family’s disposal.
Grandmother added that the guests arrived in horse-drawn carriages and wagons of all kinds. The bride and her mother were the last ones to appear at the church. On the way to the church, as they passed the houses of the workers, women and children lined the sidewalks, waving and filling the air with their shouts of joy. Many people from the academy were already assembled outside the church.
My grandmother noted that Agathe looked so young and sweet in her bridal gown and veil. She was calm, natural, and simple.
As the guests entered the church two by two, the organ was played by the multitalented cello teacher of the bride’s brother. The teacher had traveled to Fiume just for this occasion. The bride’s religion teacher, a priest, gave a moving address and performed the wedding ceremony. After the ceremony, the chaplain of the naval academy offered the Wedding Mass. It was truly a solemn celebration that proceeded flawlessly. The bride and bridegroom were a radiant pair.
Georg and Agathe were the first to leave the church. They were met with shouts of congratulations and jubilation. The crew of Georg’s submarine, along with the factory workers, had adorned the pathway from the church entrance to the main road with flagpoles, decorated with garlands of greenery and flowers. British and Austrian flags were flown as well as the coats of arms of both families. The people stood in line on both sides of the garden path, waving their hands and hats. They gesticulated, as only Italians can, and shouted, “Eviva I Sposi!” (Long live the newlyweds!). Grandmother wrote that it was especially touching because the members of the submarine crew and the factory workers had planned and executed this ovation for their commander and his young wife on their own.
Agathe and Georg thanked them, greatly moved by their outburst of affection. The workers and sailors followed them to the villa to get another glimpse of the pair. As the couple went up the steps to be with the family for lunch, they turned and waved to all the enthusiastic well-wishers.
In the living room, the whole family congratulated the young couple. Georg and Agathe were then seated at the center of the head table with honored guests on either side. Tables were set for the wedding party and other guests to the right and left of the head table. Each table was richly decorated with flowers; the silver jardiniere adorned the head table. Two lovely floral arrangements, in the form of sailing ships, were presented to the married couple. Delightful speeches were given, and the general atmosphere was joyful.
It was agreed upon that the newlyweds would leave without a formal farewell. Immediately after black coffee was served, the mothers of the bride and groom went to the bedroom where Agathe changed for her honeymoon trip. When it was time to depart, the two mothers accompanied their children downstairs. On the staircase, they were greeted again with the shouts of well-wishers and congratulations from all the wedding guests.
Agathe’s brother John had asked for the pleasure of taking the pair to the train station. After many thanks and good-byes, they got into the car, which was decorated with garlands of greenery and flowers. Since they were going to Metuglie,2 they had to pass by the entrance of the villa a second time and were showered again with flowers, blessings, and good wishes. According to Grandmother, they could not have had a more beautiful, harmonious, and joyful wedding.
After reading this account of my parents’ wedding, I think I can detect a secret tear running down Grandmother’s cheek as she accompanied her beloved Agathe down the stairs to the entrance to say a last good-bye to her. She had poured her love for her daughter into this wedding, and now she would not see her any longer because the couple was going to live in Pola where Georg was stationed. Little did she know that three years later, her daughter would be back, along with her two small children, because of circumstances beyond anyone’s control.
The rumblings of World War I started in June 1914, and all civilians who lived near the coast had to leave areas designated as war zones. Grandmother Whitehead owned a large summer home in the interior of Austria, the Erlhof. That year she invited Mamá to come there with her two children for the duration of the war while Papá was away in the service. Rupert was two and a half, and I was fifteen months old. Therefore, my first memories are of my grandmother’s house, the Erlhof.
Looking back, I think it must have been a great hardship for Mamá to give up her new and beautiful home in Pola, to be separated from her husband, and to endure the uncertainties of World War I with her two small children. But instead of mourning, she was busy around the Erlhof, joining her mother and sisters, Mary and Joan, in the activities of daily life.
Mamá could knit, crochet, and sew. I remember her sitting on the bench in front of the Erlhof, knitting woolen stockings for the soldiers at the front, making bandages of woolen material for leggings, and even white bandages for the wounded.
Not only could Mamá sew well, but she also taught me how to sew when I was four years old. We sewed by hand then, not with a sewing machine. I learned to make small hemstitches, and now every time I hem a skirt I think of those precious moments when she taught me these stitches. I wanted to learn to sew as she did and did not mind practicing the small stitches for what seemed to me to be hours. Mamá made my dresses, underwear, and even a coat. It was made of a bluish gray material that I thought was beautiful. I could not wait until I could wear it!
Mamá knew how to knit and crochet very well and very quickly. She was able to knit and read at the same time, an achievement I admired but never could accomplish. She did this with her book in her lap without looking at what she was knitting or crocheting. When I asked her to teach me how to knit and crochet, she did. In later years, my sister Maria and I sat for hours knitting woolen knee-highs for Papá. He wore them often, even though they were a bit too long on the top.
Mamá, her sister Mary (Tante Mary to us), and Tante Connie, the wife of Papá’s brother, Werner, worked together to make knee-high snow boots for us. For the boots themselves, they used heavy ivory-colored felt, and for the soles, they used some brown carpetlike material. They must have taken the design from the boots worn by the Bosnian soldiers who were stationed at Grandmother’s farm.3 The soldiers helped the farmer with his work, and in the evening, they sat outside the farmhouse singing their native songs. We learned one of these songs not from the soldiers, but from Tante Mary and Tante Joan, who had learned it from the soldiers.
The song sounded something like this: “Milke moye moye moye, Milke moye moye moye, Milke moye lasemta lasemta.” We sang this song with great enthusiasm because of its lively melody, although we did not understand the words. Sometimes Mamá and her two sisters would sing other simple folk songs in two parts, which we children quickly learned and sang among ourselves. Mamá was very musical. Not only did she sing beautifully, but she also played the piano and the violin.
I learned so much from Mamá during those World War I days just by being with her and watching her. She planted flowers and vegetables. Mamá made a garden just for me and showed me how to plant the seeds. Many of the activities that are still useful to me, such as gardening and sewing, I learned from Mamá during those days.
On Sundays, Mamá and the aunts would row us across the lake to go to Mass in the thirteenth-century church in the town of Zell am See. I would sit in the stern of the boat, watching them row while trying not to get seasick until we arrived at the little pier. There the boat was tied up until it was time to row back.
After Mass, Mamá would take us across the village square to the fruit stand of Frau Steinwender. I can still see her friendly face, like a rosy-cheeked apple, with an unforgettable smile as she greeted Mamá and said to us, “Ja, die lieben Kinder” (Oh, the dear children). Then Mamá would buy some fruit, and Frau Steinwender would make a small cone of white paper and fill it with cherries or some other small fruit in season, such as plums or apricots, for each of us. She had loved Mamá for a very long time because she had seen her for many a Sunday, even before we were born. Frau Steinwender wore her white hair in a braid around her head, and her face shone like a sunflower. She must have been well into her seventies.
Then Mamá would go into the bank building next door to visit Frau von Lammer, the owner of the bank. Sometimes she would go upstairs to visit the wife of one of Papá’s officers who lived in an apartment with her little son, Stutz von Jedina, who later became our playmate. Frau von Jedina was a tall, thin lady, and very friendly to us, but to me, she always seemed sad. In the apartment next to Frau von Jedina lived Frau von Kastner, yet another wife of an officer in the Austrian Navy.
By then it was time to take the crossing back to our grandmother’s house on Zeller Lake, which was always peaceful and blue on those excursions. The majestic mountains hovered protectively around us.
Every night Mamá would come to our beds to say evening prayers with us, which included a prayer for Papá, who was out at sea to defend our coastlines. There near the shore of the Adriatic Sea stood our house. We prayed for our father and our house. God graciously protected both.
During the war years at the Erlhof, colds and coughs were common occurrences. In such cases Mamá would put us to bed with a hot, wet compress all around our upper bodies. These compresses were called Wickel (wrappings). In a darkened room, we were supposed to sweat and were told to try to sleep while waiting it out. A hot cup of linden blossom tea with honey completed the treatment. The honey definitely sweetened it for us. It tasted wonderful.
Three-quarters of an hour later, Mamá would return to unwrap the compresses and dry us. She then would give us clean nightgowns, after which we would get a glass of cold water. I can still recall the relief after the unwrapping! Sweating was considered to be the remedy for respiratory infections. It was usually very effective.
Living in such an isolated place as the Erlhof, we regarded anything that broke the routine of daily life as a major event. There was excitement when the first berries ripened, and when we discovered ducks on the lake. Everybody had to come and take a look as the ducks dove and disappeared! We wondered where they would come out of the water. Oh! They came out so far away from where they dove!
Another event was the coming and going of the trains. We watched the trains pulling into the station at Zell am See across the lake. Sometimes they brought guests who dropped in to visit.
The greatest excitement, however, was the arrival of a new baby. In our time, the “stork” brought babies, and because they always seemed to arrive in the morning, it was natural that they were in bed with Mamá. Four von Trapp children were born at the Erlhof: Maria, Werner, Hedwig, and Johanna.
In September 1914, when Maria was born, the navy did not permit personnel to send or receive private messages. So the only way Mamá could announce the birth of the new baby to Papá was to send an official-sounding telegram to Captain von Trapp: “S.M.S. Marie eingelaufen” (S.M.S. Marie arrived). The telegram was delivered without difficulty.
Christmas of 1914 was the year when Papá’s brother, Uncle Werner, was on leave for the holy season. I was not quite two years old then, but I remember his visit distinctly. Uncle Werner was killed in action in May of 1915. My brother Werner, born on December 21, 1915, was named in memory of him. Two more sisters followed Werner. Hedwig arrived in July of 1917 and then Johanna in 1919, after the end of the war. Later, still another baby sister would arrive.
I have a beautiful memory of those days. Papá and Mamá were sitting next to each other in the living room at the Erlhof and talking quietly. As young as I was, it left an indelible impression on me. Today, I can still see the picture of my parents as clearly as I saw it then. I felt the peace and unity that existed between them, and I thought, This is how it is when one is married. Only later in life did I find out that this is very rare.
In spite of the terrible war, our early years were happy and peaceful, entirely due to the atmosphere created by our mother and grandmother. Mamá, with her shining personality, her musical talent, her love of nature, her faith, her kindness, and most of all her devotion to her family, gave us the gift of a wonderful childhood and laid the foundation for our later years. Those happy times took place at our grandmother’s home.
