Paris, France
October 1937
The hotel suite was quiet, and everything was dark, shrouded in shadows. The curtains had been drawn, the French doors shut tight. It had become quite cold over the past few days. Beside her, Georg slept fitfully, muttering to himself at short intervals, clearly lost in some dream that he wouldn't remember. Or, if he did remember, he would not say so.
Maria was sitting up in bed, observing her surroundings, observing the silence. Glad for it. She had forgotten what it was to have these few moments of solitude in a given day, and though she was wide awake at midnight, something not ideal for someone who rose with the sun under normal circumstances, it was something she could welcome. She reached out a hand to stroke her husband's face, tracing the places where lines creased it in the light of day. She brushed his shoulder as she pulled away a moment later, not wishing to wake him. His skin was like a furnace, and always was at night. She wondered how it was that he could bear to sleep in pajamas. If her skin burned the way his did in sleep, she would surely sleep naked!
But, he was a creature of habit. Of routine. Her lip curled into a smile at this, and she couldn't help but lean down and kiss his forehead, a whisper of an endearment on her lips.
He roused slightly, noticing her there, sleepily wrapping an arm around her and pulling her down with him, holding her close. Maria closed her eyes and breathed slowly, preparing for the task of rousing him, of carrying on the difficult conversation to come. She had wanted to wait until morning, but she would not sleep if she did so.
At first, she had lain awake attempting to talk herself out of the necessity of a midnight conversation with a husband that was already sleeping, but she had looked over at him and saw how restless he was, deciding with a grimace that perhaps it was not so great a loss, after all. He would not be angry with her, but rather concerned. Want to comfort her, try to persuade her that anything that needed discussing could wait until the dawn broke. Besides, it would be better in the morning, not so grim.
It was what she had told him countless times, anyway. And he had, for his part, been quite acquiescent, as long as he could hold her tight in the intervening hours of the night, and he would sleep more soundly for it.
She had known at dinner tonight that it was time to tell him everything. Nothing too obvious. She had simply looked up at him after slicing a bit of her coq au vin and had found that he was sitting across from her, simply observing her with a contented expression on his face, eyes warm and smile small, but genuine. It had made her stomach bottom out and had erased her appetite for a moment, catching her breath in her throat.
"You're lovely," was all he said, not moving, not touching his dinner, simply content to carry on watching his wife.
Maria had blushed slightly at this and looked down, returning her attention to her dinner. But that singular moment had made her feel so sure. As though everything was safe with her husband, and always would be. She could trust him with her deepest, darkest secrets and know that they would be safe until his dying day. It felt peaceful. Dare she admit it, even wonderful. Perhaps she had given her husband less credit than he deserved up to this point, but she trusted her instinct that she needed to bide her time. The fact that this little truth nagged at her, lodged firmly in the back of her mind, had surprised her. Hadn't she always been so effusive, so open, even to a fault?
But her prayers every night as she begged for some semblance of rationality and peace to accept what would come with marriage had left her with only one feeling: that altogether dreadful but familiar sensation that whispered, wait, Maria. Wait, and have patience.
She had not known what to make of it, at first. By force of habit alone, she would have normally ignored this entirely, and although she had found the wherewithal to have that entirely awkward but necessary conversation in Georg's study, something gave her pause, something that she could not place her finger on.
It had come to her, at last, in his own words on a day when she had been out with the littlest girls, walking through the gardens and then down the street to the pasture a short way away with them, promising them a look at their father's horses. All of them had now arrived back, and one was due to foal sometime in the week, late in the season and among the last to do so. Maria observed the mare as the little girls climbed the fence and called for her to come near, excited to see the great, ambling, beautiful creature. She smiled, murmuring for them to be patient and hold out their apples and carrots instead of shouting, and cast a watchful eye over the horse as her head bobbed with excitement and her nostrils flared, sight and smell working together to prompt her to appear by the fence for her snacks.
Admonishing the children to take care, Maria slipped through the slats in the fence and introduced herself to the sweet mare, murmuring low to her and rubbing a hand along her neck, feeling the silken texture of her flowing black mane. When the horse turned her head to look curiously at Maria, she held out her hand for the beast to smell, then gently began stroking the velvety muzzle. Reached her hand up the length of the mare's face, patting her between the eyes and then reaching up slightly higher to stroke and rub her ears.
The horse nudged Maria gently for this, causing the girls to squeal with excitement, and Maria looked over at them with a soft smile, but shook her head and said, "Quieter, loves."
They nodded solemnly, holding out their treats for the mare, who nickered happily and shifted herself clumsily away from Maria to take the offerings from their tiny, outstretched palms. Maria cast an appraising glance over her great belly, noticing that she was perhaps closer to foaling than previously believed—her udder was fully distended, and if she wasn't mistaken, teats already leaking colostrum. She frowned, brow furrowed, wondering why the mare had been sent back so close to foaling. Any fool who knew a horse could have seen it!
"When will the baby horse be here?" Gretl asked. "In a week, like Father said?"
Drawn out of her questions by the little girl, Maria looked up at the pair of them, enraptured and giggling as the mare's whiskers tickled their hands and her sweet breath blew in big huffs onto their faces. She shook her head. "No," she answered, trying to keep her voice light. "I rather think it will be tonight, possibly tomorrow."
"Father was wrong?" Marta asked innocently, eyes wide. "How do you know?"
Maria swiveled her head to appraise the mare one more time. The foal was low in her belly, and there was no mistaking that her milk was coming in. She pointed, explaining, "See how low her belly is? That's where the foal is, sitting low and ready to come out. And she has her milk."
Marta nodded calmly at this information, then turned her attention back to the horse, satisfied. But Gretl had clambered down from the fence and was instead standing a ways away, observing the horse and her governess with little hands on her hips, forehead scrunched and a severe expression on her face.
"Fräulein Maria," she said, "how does the baby horse come out?"
Maria blinked, felt the words stick in her throat for a moment, then coughed, clearing her airway. "When you're old enough, I'll explain it," she said, feeling that the words were lame, but she said them firmly. "Perhaps your father will even let you watch one being born, someday."
She had spent the rest of the afternoon tormented over her decision to respond as she had, and when she finally had Georg alone, she had wrung herself so tight with doubt that he'd had a hell of a job compelling her to talk.
First, all she said was, "The pregnant mare is going to foal in a day or two. Her milk is coming in, and the foal has dropped. You might want to pay her a visit, see it for yourself."
"What?" Georg exclaimed. "My stable manager swore to me she had a good week or more to go!"
"I don't know where he learned his horsemanship," Maria said wryly, "but I swear to you, she will have a foal very soon."
Within minutes, Georg had told Frau Schmidt that he and Maria were both going out to the stables and asked her to keep an ear open for the children, who were gathered in the ballroom, playing some game or other.
As the two walked down the path to the front gates and turned onto the road, Maria said, "Gretl asked me how a foal gets out of its mother."
"She asked what?" Georg actually stopped in his tracks at this, torn between amusement and horror. "She's five!"
"And as such, extremely inquisitive," Maria shrugged. "I admit that it startled me, though. I told her she wasn't ready to know—but I did not put it that way!—and then explained to her how I know that we have an impending arrival coming so soon."
"Thank God that's fairly simple," Georg breathed, beginning to walk again.
"I just don't know if it was right to have deflected her like that," Maria sighed. "It has been bothering me all day!"
Ah, so here it was, Georg realized. His fiancée was not only concerned about the horse, but worried that she had not handled Gretl's inquisitiveness appropriately.
"I try always to be as honest as possible," Maria said, exasperated. "I can't help feeling I lied a little."
"There is no dishonesty in having the discernment to know that someone, whether for age or situation or character, is not ready to know something," Georg said, hoping to reassure Maria. "After all, that is why the facts of life are explained at times dependent on the child in question, whether determined by biology or not!"
"That's true," Maria trailed. "Very true, I suppose."
"So, don't worry yourself, love," Georg reassured, holding the gate to the pasture open for Maria. "For now, you have handled the issue in question quite appropriately!"
"I wish it felt that way," she sighed. But already, her mind was turning toward other things, and as she lifted her eyes to the skyline and observed Nonnberg Abbey in the distance, she resolved to keep these things in her heart, pondering, praying.
It had been her husband's words that evening as they walked to the stables that convinced her that her discernment to stay quiet in revealing the full extent of her feelings—for all that he was a considerate, loving man, as his spats with Max demonstrated often enough, he did not always possess the capacity to understand another perspective, allow for the possibility of a different outcome. Indeed, even their own arguments showed that on full, unflattering display! Of course, she was not without her own faults, nor was Max, but this was the truth that she knew to be evident. And it would not do to have conversations that would go nowhere.
But now, here they were… and though there was absolutely nothing she could do to change her husband's character, if even only for one moment, she had spent the past weeks, months, learning that what she could do was appeal to the best parts of him when they were most accessible. And she wasn't sure, exactly, what it was that had alerted her that she now had her opening. Maybe it was the way he had looked at her at dinner, the look of a man so utterly contented with his place and his lot in life. Maybe it had been the absolutely breathtaking way he had made love to her, tonight, so tender, so loving, so tempered. Like he was savouring her, cherishing her, discovering her anew.
It had left her with a light head and full heart, body feeling not so much limp and numb but full and warm, as though she had been filled from head to toe with a warm, golden liquid. It was satiation, contentment, desire, love, belonging all together, contained inside her, filling her mind with such bliss.
Maria sighed, pushing herself away from Georg and rolling over to turn on her bedside lamp. She pushed herself up again and gently roused him while she scrabbled for her dressing gown, putting it on and quickly moving to call room service for the one thing she knew how to order properly—a strong pot of tea.
"Maria?" Georg asked. He was sitting up in bed, hair tousled and rubbing his eyes. "Is something wrong?"
"I've called for some tea," Maria said as she reappeared in the doorway. "Put something on and come sit with me." She sighed heavily. "I can't sleep, and I want to talk."
Her husband's face was scrunched in confusion at this, but when he nodded, she disappeared in a whirl of blue silk and disappeared into the sitting room, where he could hear some faint noises, the sound of paper crinkling. She was no doubt restarting the fire that had snuffed itself out earlier that evening while they lay there entangled together, naked and warm, drunk with the pleasure of such free and open lovemaking.
He moved quickly, stopping in the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, and answered the door for room service when the buzzer went off, announcing the arrival of their tea.
Maria thanked the bellhop while Georg tipped him, then set about the routine of laying out their tea. She poured his and then hers, adding sugar to his cup and milk to hers. Set aside the small plate of cookies that had been sent as well. Sat down, one leg folded under her, holding out Georg's teacup and saucer for him. He took it from her, sitting down beside his wife, and blew on it before taking a sip. Chamomile.
Maria sat quietly for a while, sipping her tea while she watched the flames of the rekindled fire lick higher and higher in the grate, before finally settling down again to an even blaze. Only when she set down her saucer on the tray and shook her head at Georg's gesture to refill her cup did she appear prepared to say or do anything.
"I want to talk about this now, before we go home and life resumes itself," Maria said. "My wariness of having a child."
Georg nodded. "I see."
"I'm sorry to have woken you," Maria continued, "but you were sleeping fitfully anyway, and all I was doing was sitting there in bed watching you, my mind running in circles." She paused, taking a big breath and exhaling steadily. "It seemed like the ideal time to say something, in the dead of night, with no one around, no distractions of the day, no precedence of more pressing issues."
Georg bowed his head, knowing that she was right. There was no space in the activities of their days that really allowed for the seriousness and solemnity of her quiet and staunch stance to be fully known.
"Also," Maria added, "I think that you are prepared to listen, now, and I am prepared to say."
"Where does this fear come from?" Georg prompted gently.
"I know it is incomplete, but it is the true starting point for me," Maria obliged. "War. I was born just before the last years of the Great War and grew up in its shadow. I know such untold misery and darkness from that time. Living in Tyrol, tucked away into the mountains hidden from sight, also hidden from mind. It was so terrible for so long. It was difficult to afford food, to find work, impossible to find medicine. I was born on a train to Vienna!"
Georg blanched at this. "Vienna…" It was so far! Such a long trip for a woman in the throes of labor!
"In the years after, I saw so much sickness, so much suffering, and so many children dead or dying. The infants barely stood a chance of surviving birth, care was so poor and lacking in the very basic necessities. And then there was me, scrawny and undernourished—not at all pretty to look at—always feeling underfoot, unwanted, always to blame for everything that went wrong."
Georg was shaking his head at this, but said nothing. He merely gestured for her to continue.
Pouring another cup of tea, Maria mused, "I tried to keep a garden one year, but there was so much rain, and I hadn't planted anything deep enough, and it was all washed out by the force of one terrible storm. I remember standing in the dirt, tears streaming around my face, observing all the little plants with their little roots, damaged and unsalvageable. My father found me there, scoffed at my tears, and said it was just as well, that I killed everything good in the world anyway. My mother had died the previous winter after catching the scarlet fever I had, you see."
Georg reached out and took her hand, rubbing it, wanting to comfort her, steady the tremor in her voice.
She simply smiled a sad smile and drank her tea, collecting her thoughts.
"He was never the same after she died," she murmured. "The kind, happy man that I loved so much was gone."
Georg was struck by this, having not heard it before now. How similar this experience was to his children's with him… and though he hated himself for it, there had been a period of time where he had blamed them, even despised them for bringing home the illness that had taken her life. It hadn't lasted long, especially as it had come to bear in the early days where he was struggling to find his way through everyday life with seven small children without her, and had more than once had meltdowns on his hands that were borne of nothing but pure sorrow and longing. His children had wanted Agathe back just as badly as he did.
It was with immense gravity that Georg understood that Maria's moral indignation with him for his treatment of his children when she arrived was grounded just as much in righteousness as it was personal experience. It broke his heart and made it swell all at once.
"A few summers later, I tried to rescue a litter of kittens," Maria said. "They all died, despite my best efforts, and I buried them myself. Tired from the care of three tiny kittens who needed to be fed around the clock, blisters on my hands, dirt on my clothes, sadness in my heart for those three little scraps who I could not save… my father had words then, too, and that was when I decided that since I was such a burden, such a problem, that I would run away. I did it at times when he wouldn't notice. I would make the hours-long trek down the mountains, run into Salzburg. One day, I was wandering through the streets near the fortress and found the staircase leading to the abbey. I climbed every step, exhausted but determined. And I was struck when I made it to the top. On the other side of the walls, I could hear the most beautiful singing. It gave me chills. I found a tree and climbed it, looking over the walls, realizing I had found the gardens."
Georg could see it in his mind's eye: little Maria, hair plaited in one long braid down her back, dressed in a scrubby dirndl, donning worn but study boots, skinny little legs propelling her up through the tree branches, bringing her ever higher, until the child found a branch sturdy enough to sit on and high enough to see from. Could picture her swinging a long leg over the branch, inching her way forward, as far as she dared, hidden in the leaves, observing the scene below her with wide eyes. Her mouth parted just a bit as she concentrated, entranced.
It was much the same as he saw her sitting before him here now, that same inquisitive spirit trying to move beyond brokenness, looking at the world in wonder, piecing it all together.
"I kept returning," Maria said. "Until one day, several years on, I lingered too long in Salzburg talking to one of the carriage horse drivers and got home late, found my father sitting at the table with a face like thunder. There was no discussion, there were no questions. He simply told me to pack my things, that he was sending me to Vienna to live with my aunt and go to school. He could not bear to see me anymore, this lying, deceptive creature.
"School was only a marginal improvement," she muttered. "I did well and was a good student, but I lacked my previous skills in making friends and falling into good graces. I missed going to the abbey, the only place I felt at peace, like there was purpose in life, an explanation for the reasons for all the sufferings we humans endure."
Georg's eyes widened, for he had a sense that she could see where she would go with it. And the sorrowful thing of it all was that it made perfect, inarguable sense.
"As you can guess, I joined the abbey when I finished school," Maria said. "I so desperately longed to sing in the choir, to integrate my way into a steady, slow life, away from the world, unable to cause hurt or be hurt." She smiled wryly. "How naïve I was! Life made even less sense inside those walls, but I tried ever so hard. Too hard, I think. And so, move forward several years and one sea captain and seven children later, and you can imagine my complete dissolution of everything sure about this new life when someone suddenly asked me the question I had not even thought of: would we have more children?
"At first, I thought, surely! Surely, we would. And then, that very moment, I turned around and there was Wolfgang Zeller, sneering in my face and making the most despicable comment about it being good for the Reich, for the Führer, if I brought many more blond-haired, blue-eyed children into the world to serve their empire with proper duty. All at once, I thought, war. War is coming. Never have I ever felt anything with such chilling certainty in my life. I tried to shake it off, but the next morning I was reading the papers, and it hit me all over again, and then I knew there would be no banishing it. I was terrified."
"And then came all the dreadful comments from women who were going on and on about how horrible it must be to have seven children upon marriage, and how difficult it would surely be to add more! How ever would I manage, they asked. Surely, I would need to hire a governess, maybe two! A nanny, to be sure! And though I tried to ignore their words, it ignited a fear in me that I felt when the Reverend Mother said I would need to look after seven children. Namely the fear that had lived in me for as long as could remember, telling me that I was not worthy to have stewardship of anything remotely precious. How could I keep seven children alive and well, let alone a baby? I had no record of success, and a lifetime of being told that I was the problem, and patterns proving that removing myself would remove the problem."
"Oh, my love," Georg sighed, heart breaking for her yet again.
"I couldn't even keep plants alive," Maria said, a hint of bitter irony in her voice. "And then, years later, I have seven children thrust upon me, living, breathing humans that I would be responsible for. I was lost. I faked my way to confidence I did not have. Settled into the role with time, but never felt at complete and total ease with you around to watch, not until later."
"I could have made things far easier for you," Georg muttered. "I'm sorry that I did not." He was thinking primarily of Maria's first day at the villa von Trapp, in which he had known full well that his children would not help Maria with the whistle signals, that they would try to confuse her by muddling their names, had known they slipped a pinecone on her chair before dinner, because he had seen the big thing in Gretl's tiny fist behind her back, which she thought was hidden from his eyes and was anything but!
"It doesn't matter now, anyway," Maria said with a shake of her head. "It's water under the bridge."
"Why didn't you tell me about Zeller?" Georg asked, rankled more than his sleepy face showed.
"I… I was stunned. And you were angry that night over his being there, as it was. You argued with your friend for allowing him to come at all, were so upset that a man you respected had invited an open Nazi to socialize with us all. I was not about to add fire to the flame. It was so vulgar, what he said. I think you might have skinned him alive!"
"As well I would have!" Georg growled, but calmed immediately upon seeing the look on his wife's face. It looked like regret, regret that she had consented to be so honest with him. He could not have that!
"In any case," Maria said, "you can imagine that with all my old insecurities resurrected anew, despite several successful months of caring for the children and a slowly coming acceptance of my new relationship with them as their mother, combined with the horrifying declaration by Herr Zeller… something snapped. The rumors and vitriol only fueled my anger more. I resolved that as long as there was a threat of war, or war itself, I could not possibly bring a child into that world. I still have nightmares about things that scared me as a child," she said. "They don't scare me the same way—rather, they prey on my sense of self. No child born in the midst of war deserves a half-wit mother simply because she was too careless, even though she knew better."
"Love," Georg whispered, "it will not be what you remember."
"You can't promise that," Maria said. "I've no wish to be stubborn, but you truly cannot. War has a way of breaking down class barriers, making money matter very little and in completely different ways. And it has a way of magnifying all of those differences as well." She gestured to herself. "You can see that, can't you?"
It was a different perspective. A civilian perspective. Georg had never thought of it, but she was right. War had a way of making equals of them all, of making the strains of that equality painfully obvious in tandem. Whether it was by way of possessions, clothing, food… everyone was subjected to the same rules, the same hell, but still going about it all so differently.
Georg looked up. If this had come at any other time, in any other way… there were arguments upon arguments in her words, disagreements and fundamental differences in how they each saw everything in the grand scheme, and yet, he could not bring himself to come anywhere near that. He only saw her, and at once, it made sense. And besides, he had his own bit of guilt and fear tucked away that he had mentioned nothing of, and now that Maria had revealed herself this way, he felt a liar for keeping it from her. A liar to himself, a deceptive fool.
"Thank you," he murmured. "You have given me the strength to say something that I could not even admit to myself in my head, even as I knew it existed."
Maria cocked her head, curious. "Yes?"
Taking her hands, Georg kissed her knuckles. Heaved a heavy sigh. "I have not fought your protestations harder, not out of any noble sense of duty or respect, but rather because when you sat there that day and told me that you refused to have a child until things calmed, there was this overwhelming sense of… relief. Not that it diminished my desire to know why you feel this way," he gestured at her, "as you well know, but I have lived for the better part of five years with the crippling, secret guilt that if only Agathe hadn't borne seven children in the span of only eleven years… maybe, just maybe she would be alive. For a while, I blamed my children. But ultimately, I blamed myself. She wanted it, insisted, begged… and I stupidly obliged. I still believe I killed her, sometimes, when my mind goes to that black, unforgiving place."
Maria was gazing at him with eyes blazing, reached out to touch his face.
"I was so relieved, no matter what the reason… that you did not want the same thing she did."
"This honeymoon has been quite the education," Maria said quietly. She had no response for his words. Felt it would not be right to utter one. Did not find it necessary.
"You can say that again," Georg muttered, setting his teacup and saucer on the tray alongside his wife's, and pulled her into his arms.
"I feel like such a coward," Maria whimpered.
"I think you've missed something very important," Georg said. "First of all, you shared this with me. Showed me that there is no one reason, no one experience that turns your desires toward an unexpected bent. And you've shown me your incredible strength. I would sit here all night listing all the ways in which you were strong in the face of your fear if you let me. Second of all, I think you've done rather a marvelous job looking after my children despite your every misgiving. You fall in line so naturally with them. You understand them, they understand you. There is respect and love."
He was rubbing her shoulders now, causing Maria to burrow deeper.
"Further, I think that you are more scared of the idea that you have had no proper role model for how to raise children, or at least not very lasting ones. But you see, you don't need that! If anything, you learned by example what love and caring is not. You came to take care of my children despite having no confidence in your ability whatsoever. And you have done so well."
Georg stared at the fire for a while, watching the flames die down again, thinking once more of how they had been sprawled here hours earlier, connected as one being. When her light sniffling faded, he kissed the top of her head and squeezed her tight. "And I vow to you, Maria. When the time comes to welcome a child, we will do it together. We will consider adding more with care. We will share it, and it will all be wonderful. I promise. You will have nothing to fear. If you will feel more reassured for it, then we will wait until there is peace again. I will not ask of you more than what you are willing to give."
Maria wondered if they were sitting here ensconced together, making promises that could not be kept. She would take utmost care now and in the years to come, but there was no way to promise that no child would come as long as they were engaging in intercourse. And the thought of not doing so filled her with the deepest sense of sorrow.
"I won't withhold from you," Maria said firmly. "Only when necessary. But I refuse to deprive myself of the intimacy with my husband that makes it possible to bear this at all. That is my promise."
Georg looked at her, hard, lifting her chin so that he could look into her eyes. "You are sure?"
"I ought to have some trust in my God, don't you think?" Maria said, trying to laugh lightly, but her voice quivering and shaky instead.
"Always," Georg nodded, overwhelmed by her ability to balance herself now. She grew better at it every day, not even realizing it, completely unaware. He couldn't have imagined this kind of compromise and surrender falling hand-in-hand that day in the study where she had been so terribly wrung out. She was learning to cope, better than she knew.
"I hope you don't mind," she breathed, reaching up to kiss him. Hands wandering in between the folds of his robe. Body heavy and warm and real against him.
"How could I mind?" he asked, taking her face to kiss her as she swiped at his robe, pulling it apart, loosening the sash, shrugging her own off. Once again, her creamy skin was glinting gold in the firelight, and it was so easy, so simple, so natural to take her in his arms and arouse her, slip inside her body, move in a gentle rhythm until she cried out in a gasp, bucked helplessly at the shifted angle that put pressure right where her head went to the clouds, uncomprehending. But instead of using it to drive her wild, again, Georg chose instead to let her keep her awareness, only pressed his fingers against her sex and stroked in order to make her come in easy, long waves.
He didn't allow himself to come until they returned to bed and he took her again there, lost in the glory of her soft and shapely body, cushioned and surrounded by pillows and sheets, such a vision. Lost in her amazing, wonderful, self-awareness.
There was such power in choices. Such power in love. Such power in trust.
It shook him to the core, and as he emptied himself inside his wife, Georg could only marvel. She brought him to places before unknown, challenged him to be a better man. He had so much to learn from her!
After that night, there seemed to be a settled look about Maria. There did not seem to be that flighty nervousness in her eyes anymore. She seemed to simply glow. And it was just as well, because her newly-discovered assurance was to be his bulwark. Not three days later, Max rang from Aigen and Georg's world went black.
Stowe, Vermont
July 1945
Maria was hard at work, sweeping the plank wood floors and washing dishes left over from yesterday's welcome home party. It had truly lifted Maria's spirits, made Maria so glad that they had these wonderful children and wonderful friends in their lives. Everyone had been there, food and drink aplenty, and though everyone listened with horror to what Maria and Georg had to share about their trip, and paid due reverence in the procession of the evening, the news of Maria's pregnancy broke at her refusal of a Scotch whiskey to toast the new world.
"A little wine, then?" Laverne had offered, but Maria shook her head. "I'm afraid it turns my stomach."
Her friend went very still, and when others realized that the lively woman had gone silent, was staring at Maria, they began to look around as well. With a shrug, Maria looked over at Georg and asked, "Shall we tell them now?"
"Never a better place than a party to share good news," he had smiled, beckoning to Maria. So, she had gone to him, let him wrap an arm tightly around her waist, kiss her in front of the crowd, and proudly announce, "We are so pleased to share with you all here that we will be welcoming a new family member sometime after the New Year."
The clamor was instantaneous, with cheering and clapping, in direct contrast with the complete ordinariness of the simple knowing that had gone on in the weeks prior, since the pair had discovered the happy news. And in contrast to Maria's fear of being overwhelmed by all the good cheer and good wishes, she found that instead of it setting her ill at ease, it comforted her and expanded the joy that had been growing in her heart.
The girls had surrounded her immediately, shrieking and exclaiming and arguing amongst themselves over who would help Maria do what, who would help with the baby when it was born, who would watch it for her while she worked. Maria finally had to put up a hand and say steadily, smile on her face, "Girls, my darling girls… there is plenty time enough for this! Let a woman breathe!"
And they had disbanded obediently, this time swarming to their father, who was now on the other side of the room being congratulated by the men with a stiff Scotch and a celebratory toast.
"Oh, Maria," Laverne said, "My sincerest congratulations!" She hugged Maria quickly, pecking her cheek as she pulled away.
"And mine as well," came Alexandra's voice from the throng as she worked her way over to Maria. "I'm sorry to have been late, but the car got a flat tire on the way here and Max and I had quite a beast of a time!"
"Oh, think nothing of it," Maria smiled. She held out her arms for a hug, feeling warm and happy for the big, sparkling smile that was splitting Alexandra Higgins' face.
"You deserve this so much," Alexandra whispered in her ear. "I am so glad for you!"
But upon giving their congratulations, the women also immediately ensconced Maria in a corner and asked her, "How are you, truly?"
Looking from one woman to the other, Maria took a great breath and shrugged, smiling at them. "I am excited. Tired. Exhausted, really. I am ready for this, and we have known for some time now. There has been plenty of time to adjust to the idea, and I am content."
"I can't believe you really went all the way to Europe knowing," Laverne said, eyes wide.
"Laverne!" Alexandra said severely. "Don't be ridiculous! You of all people should know she is not an invalid!"
"But still," the other woman trailed, "If you're expecting just after the New Year, then that would mean that you are quite a ways along. How ever did you keep it to yourself all this time?"
Maria burst out laughing at Laverne's face, for in all her earnestness, it appeared that her eyes were bugging from her head, and simply said, "We weren't ready for people to know. We enjoyed keeping it to ourselves for a while. We never could have done when the children were younger just because of all the work I did that revolved around them and all the rough-and-tumble that I took part in, but since we could, and I needed some time to process it all, we waited."
"How did your husband react?" Alexandra asked, lip curling in a smile that said she would be tickled to think of the naval captain being ruffled and caught-off guard.
Maria laughed. "I'm afraid my face was plenty prelude to my words, so he simply took it for what it was, took my hand, and led me out the door, where he then hugged and kissed me properly just as soon as we were in the car. It was quite sweet."
"There must be a story there," Laverne commented, looking at Maria meaningfully.
"There is," Maria confirmed, "but best not to speak of it here. I'll drop by this week for tea, what do you say?"
"How is Thursday for you?"
"Perfect," Maria nodded. "We'll continue this then!"
"Mother?"
Maria looked up from the pot she was scrubbing to find Gretl standing in the doorway, looking torn between wanting to help and wanting to run away.
"Yes, Gretl?" Maria asked, releasing the pot and setting aside her sponge, wiping her hands on the towel pinned to her skirt. She sat down at the table and gestured for her daughter to join her. She was biting her lip, looking unsure, and reminded Maria of a nervous cat that didn't know would be the best route of escape.
Finally, she came into the kitchen, standing near the sink, but would not come sit down.
"Gretl, what's wrong?" Maria asked, eyebrows knitting together as she observed her daughter with alarm.
"Something is wrong," the girl finally whispered. "I think I'm dying!"
Looking the girl up and down, Maria said, "You look well enough, love…"
The girl swallowed, shaking her head. She clutched at her stomach, whining, "It hurts so bad! And there's blood!"
"Ach, so," Maria said calmly, rising quickly and going to her daughter, taking her by the shoulders and kneeling down in front of her. "This is nothing to fear," she explained gently. "It just means that your body is becoming grown-up. Why don't we get you sorted out, sweet, and I'll put a pot of tea on, and we'll have a chat."
The girl nodded mutely, and Maria ushered her into her master bathroom, telling her to draw a warm bath if she wanted. "It will help with the cramps," Maria explained as she rummaged around in the cupboards under the sink, looking for bath salts and lavender oil. "I can't seem to find any of my supplies," she said a few minutes later as she helped Gretl strip down, pulling the girl's long hair from over one shoulder and braiding it into a quick, loose plait, which she pinned around the crown of her head. "It's just as well, I haven't had much use for any of it, so of course I would misplace everything!"
"What do you mean?" Gretl asked, standing there in her underthings, frowning at her mother's mutterings in the mirror.
"Just some things that will help you manage your menstrual cycle," Maria said. "It should happen every month normally, because it's all about your body preparing to have a baby, and then if that doesn't happen, it cleans everything out. But if you are going to have a baby, then the bleeding stops, love."
"So this isn't happening to you right now?" Gretl asked.
"Right," Maria confirmed. "It's usually the first guess that a baby is on the way."
"Always?" Gretl asked nervously.
"Oh, no, darling," Maria said quickly. "I'll explain that to you later, after you've had a bath. I'll bring you what I can find and show you how to put it all together, alright?"
Gretl nodded, though looking quite unconvinced.
Her lack of certainty turned to outright horror an hour later, after her mother had explained the rest of the particulars for her. Of course, she had sometimes heard her sisters talking, but had never really understood any of it. She hadn't bothered to ask, either, too preoccupied with her own worries and missions, and if she ever did try to pry, her sisters would get this waspish, secretive look about them, and clam up immediately. Even Marta, which irritated her greatly.
"Gretl?" Maria asked gently. "Darling, are you there?"
Gretl looked around at her mother, shrugging. "I feel a bit better. Thank you, Mother. But I am never having a baby!"
"Not for a very long time anyway, I hope," Maria said. "One day you will feel differently about this whole business, I promise."
"I don't think so," Gretl shook her head. "I will never have a baby because I won't have sex!" Her face was scrunched, her tone almost comically put out. "That's gross!"
"As you wish, darling," Maria sighed, trying mightily to mask her heightening amusement and not feeling very successful. With each daughter, from Brigitta to Marta to Gretl, this had been a vastly different experience, reflecting their personalities so readily. Brigitta had asked for a book, and Marta had listened wide-eyed, asking questions if she did not understand something, but otherwise content to merely listen. Gretl, as usual, had something to say. Maria thanked her lucky stars that the house was otherwise empty right now.
"May I go, now?" Gretl asked.
Maria gestured around the kitchen. "Feel free," she said, "but I wouldn't mind a hand finishing this up."
"I'll help," Gretl said. She seemed fairly determined to resume life as normal, and it made Maria smile. If she knew her daughter, unless it was quite serious, she would not again ever hear a peep out of her where this was concerned. She preferred not to let much of anything stand in the way of her young, determined life.
"I think she might turn out to be an aviator pilot or something," Maria chuckled later, explaining the morning's events to her husband. "She's so determined, so smart, so no-nonsense."
"As long as she doesn't go near a boy, she can do whatever she wants as far as I'm concerned," Georg said.
Maria rolled her eyes. "Surely not this again!"
"The curse of daughters," Georg said lightly, laughter sparking in his eyes. He reached out to take his wife's hand. "You are amazing."
Maria shrugged. "I don't see how."
"You took a situation that scared her and normalized it so thoroughly for her that she helped you scrub the kitchen an hour after the fact," Georg smirked. "Liesl acted like a delicate little flower for an entire week. I love her, but it was insufferable! I begged her mother to appeal to her better nature."
"It's so different for every girl," Maria sighed. "I wouldn't have known what to do if she had shut herself in her room to sulk."
"I'm sure you would have figured out something," Georg assured.
"It's a lucky thing I'm expecting," she commented. "The explanations slipped out easily of their own accord, ordinary as buttering toast, and I think that helped her. Anyway," Maria sighed, "enough of that. What are you doing today, love?"
"Max asked to meet for lunch," Georg grimaced. "God only knows what he wants."
"Georg," Maria admonished gently, "I don't know what went on between you two, and I don't need to know, but if Max is the one offering an olive branch, it must be ridiculous."
"More ridiculous than a family singing group," Georg said.
Maria frowned at him. "That was unkind. You're better than this, Georg, I know it."
"He presumed to tell me how I should look at things," Georg growled. "I won't forgive that. Not coming from him."
"On the contrary," Maria said, a bit sharply, "I think that sort of thing coming from him would be more relevant than most things."
"Oh, stop defending him," Georg snapped. "He doesn't need defending!"
Maria's gaze was cold, now. "If that's the way you want it, then be my guest, Georg. Just don't expect me to agree."
Georg watched, mouth gaping as his wife stood quickly and swept out of the library, no doubt to go for a long walk. Sure enough, he heard the tell-tale slam of the back door.
"Hello, Max," Georg said evenly, chafing at the fact that the man had arranged for them to meet in public. There was nothing Georg despised more than having to feign politeness. He would prefer to be in the privacy of his home or Max's flat, where words could be said without being minced and be thoroughly honest.
"Hello, Georg," Max replied, holding out his hand to shake Georg's.
Georg hesitated for a moment, but wanting to avoid an awkward scene, took his hand and grasped it, giving a quick shake.
"Shall we?" Max asked, gesturing for a waitress to come and seat them.
Once they were comfortably seated in a quiet corner booth with the front window on one side, drinks in front of them and meals ordered, Max cleared his throat. "I wanted to meet with you to congratulate you personally on the impending arrival of the tenth von Trapp," he said. "And… if you're willing, I would very much like to clear the air between us. It should not be this way."
Georg felt as though Max were using fortune to skip and hop his way out of a bad spot with him, but as he looked at his old friend's face, the lines there so much deeper than he remembered, he saw only what Max had said. A desire to share the joy of good news, and a desire to restore a long friendship.
"Knowing now that Maria is pregnant," Max said in a low voice, "I understand your upset with me. I understand your caution. I apologize for assuming it was something far worse, a mar of your character."
Georg folded his arms across his chest. Closed his eyes. Bowed his head. Sighed. "I should have told you," he muttered. "But Maria was not ready. We knew for quite a while before we got back. She wanted—needed—the time to come to terms with the news on her own before everyone else started throwing their opinions at her like bread at the birds."
"No, I understand," Max shook his head. "It is a private matter, one you have no need to explain to me, now or then."
"The truth is, though," Georg said, pausing slightly as his food was set in front of him and he thanked the young girl for so doing, "that on the whole, even without knowing about the pregnancy, you were right."
Max stared at Georg, gaping. The silence weighed down around them, building itself into a tightrope of tension between them, and it seemed it would not snap.
Georg quirked an eyebrow at Max, asking, "What? Surely you don't think so little of me that you really believe I would not apologize when I am wrong."
Closing his mouth, but still resembling a codfish, Max shook his head. "No, it's not that. I just did not think either of us would really believe that there was anything said in the content of that row worth the gut to apologize for."
Georg waved a hand. "I saw something incredible while we were in Salzburg, Max. So incredible. I saw that we were both right in what we said, but I saw that your assessment dominated Maria's countenance, especially once we had the answers we sought. She wilted, briefly, but as closure came and her mind cleared, filled with words she both longed and dreaded to hear, she raised her head high and kept it there. There were some things she wanted to do, but other than that, we came, we went, we flew back to the States."
"How was it?" Max murmured.
"Salzburg?" Georg asked. "The air still crackles there, like it's holding a secret. It still looks the same, as beautiful as it ever was and ever will be. But there is a silence, a stillness about it that was not there before the Anschluss. It's almost like its spirit has died, and is waiting for a new spring to revive it. That's how it felt to me, anyway. Maria only had eyes for the mountains. And she wanted to go to Mondsee for Mass, which we did."
Max quirked a smile at this. "Of course she did."
"You were also right that I was waffling about like a coward," Georg said evenly, holding Max's gaze. I was hiding behind an unfair assessment of my wife to escape the fact that I myself did not want to return there and face the undoubtedly different world."
"Will you go back?" Max asked.
Georg shook his head. "If we do, it will not be for a very long time, yet. It isn't safe, there, not really. Salzburg is a lucky city, tucked away in the mountains, all its history and culture and grandeur miraculously preserved. But in Vienna? Max, Vienna was a nightmare. I am so glad that we returned home via Paris."
"I can only imagine Paris was also a wreck, though," Max said sadly. "What I remember from before I was sent away was not very encouraging."
"It broke me to see that place in the ruins that it is in," Georg said. "But the French are soldiering on, determined to put their world back together, while in Vienna all the Austrian military brass and political elite care about is who can control more of what. And there is talk of the Allied control of Germany extending to Austria, as a consequence of their annexation, which as it lasted through the duration of the war might as well be thought of as one and the same."
Georg was glaring at his water glass now, clearly incensed to be saying such a thing, and Max ventured, "Can Austria stand on its own?"
"With a lot of hard work and a lot of change and a lot of money?" Georg asked. "Yes, it could stand. But it has no money. The Reichsmark is worthless. The people are chafing against change, even if it means restoring their homeland. And the people who want to do the hard work are not the people that I would like to see in power, there."
"It's just as well that it would play out this way," Max sighed. "I used to think, 'when this bloody war is over, if I survive it, I'm going to go home to my house and sleep in my bed until my body stops aching and all the weariness of the entire hellscape leaves me.' But there was nothing there when I got there, just a trashed, dark apartment and all my things riffed through, anything valuable gone."
Georg's eyes widened. "You went back to your home? Are you crazy?"
Max grimaced. "How do you think I came to have those articles and clippings, Georg? I can't have had them with me in the work camp, now, could I? Yes, I went home. I wasn't there ten minutes, only long enough to gather some clothes and the things I wanted to take with me across the sea. Seeing as there was not much to take, I decided that I might as well stuff the space with my records as well as I could."
"You are mad," Georg muttered, shaking his head in amazement.
"It was that old Roma man that helped us escape that made me care at all, really," Max said, cutting into his meal. "He would tell the most wonderful, detailed stories, histories and love tales, anything and everything, and they all came from his people, and he impressed upon us all the importance of using our ability for language to tell the stories that ought to be told. And that's why I was reading Mein Kampf," Max explained. "I was wrong not to want to know his mind when it was early enough to save myself, so I thought that if I at least tried to understand it a bit, something about the whole, blasted affair would finally make sense."
Georg nodded stiffly, jaw tight. He now realized why Max's baffling indifference had for so long been such an infuriating source for him: like the carefree man he was, Max had not concerned himself with the task of knowing their neighbors, while Georg had read Hitler's manifesto almost as soon as it was printed, burning with desire and disgust to discover why this Austrian madman thought that he could take over Germany, and then the world.
It was madness, and yet, he had been on his way to succeeding. Well on his way. Only the Americans had stopped him in his tracks, and even then, it had succeeded because Hitler's armies were exhausted, tattered from trying to fight a war on two fronts. His Luftwaffe had deteriorated, and only his submarine fleet remained almost impenetrable.
"Do you ever wonder," Max asked, "what life would have been like if you were a different man and had accepted Hitler's commission?"
"I don't wonder," Georg said immediately. "I envision it in my dreams, and it makes me sick. Maria once confessed something very similar, and I think my mind latched onto that and expanded the nightmare, because now it includes elements of hers."
Max set his silverware down and drank long from his water glass, unsure whether to go any further.
"She watches me sleep at night, when she can't sleep herself," Georg mused. "She says that I'm very restless, rarely sleep soundly. It is a stark contrast to my younger days, with Agathe, who would often do the very same, though usually because we had so little time together, and not because she herself was gripped with fear. She told me that she loved to watch me sleep, because I slept so soundly, looked so peaceful. Like a boy with no troubles. I think of that, and I wonder what changed. When it changed."
Georg shook himself, pulling himself out of the memories. "Maybe it's just a sign that I'm growing old," he muttered, unused to being so frank with someone that was not his wife.
"No," Max said with a quick shake of his head. "No. For me, it is the same. Just for different reasons."
Finishing off the last of his mashed potatoes, Georg turned to his soup and said, "I hope our fences are mended, Max."
Max looked up from the pie he had ordered and smiled, eyes crinkling. "I think so, Georg."
"I am not familiar with you being so principled," Georg said teasingly, though in all seriousness, he meant it.
And Max understood that. "I know. It is a new mantle for me, too. But I feel responsible, as though I simply must wear it, no matter what my reservations to the contrary."
"As well you should," Georg nodded, holding out his hand. When Max shook it, strong and firm, Georg cleared his throat and said, "So, tell me what you have been getting up to, living in town like a city slicker and running the church choir!"
Max laughed, and then gladly launched into a survey of his life in Stowe.
END OF PART ONE