Chapter 2: THE GIRL

Inside the safe, everything was in order. Georg checked the train schedules and tickets first. Then he counted the little folders, one for each of the children. He gave an approving pat to the fat envelopes stuffed with currency. Finally, he withdrew the sheaf of notes he'd made and reviewed all of the arrangements, noting with resignation the number of times he'd written Elsa's name in and then scratched it out.

He'd known all along it wasn't going to work. But how could he make it work without her? Zeller would hear about the broken engagement, of course. There was really very little time left to act.

At dinner, the children were subdued. It was remarkable, how well they were doing without a governess. Frau Schmidt reported they were no trouble at all, and there seemed to be no evidence of the tree-climbing, canoe-swamping or other mischief that had occupied them all summer. They read, practiced their music and English lessons, and went for long walks. The older ones watched out for the younger ones, rather than torturing them, and there was very little bickering among them. Georg made a point of spending time with them every day, no matter the press of business, although he found himself making excuses when they asked to sing for him.

Georg knew from the aftermath of Agathe's death that children could be resilient, sometimes disturbingly so, and so he found their continuing sorrow over Fraulein Maria's departure quite troubling. For the first few weeks, he had told himself that their good behavior was merely an effort to forestall the appointment of another governess, or to change his mind about boarding school. But he was starting to worry, and utterly at a loss as to what to do about it.

He drained his coffee cup and rose from the table.

"Liesl. I need to speak to you. In the library."

Fraulein Maria had lectured him countless times about how Liesl was very nearly a woman, and for a moment, he half-wished the little governess could be here as he put her assertion to the test. Liesl was old enough to know the truth, and to be of assistance, but he wasn't sure she could pull the whole thing off on her own. He'd given his children the sheltered, aristocratic upbringing Agathe had enjoyed herself and wanted for them, and now he was going to ask his totally unprepared daughter to take on a task more challenging than anything she'd faced at school or at home. Yet he had no choice: he couldn't manage the scheme without a partner.

She watched him warily while he seated himself behind the big desk and, without preliminaries, launched into the matter at hand.

"I've been offered a commission in the German Navy," he began.

"No, Father," Liesl burst out. "You're not going to-"

"No. I'm not," Georg said, feeling quiet pride at the girl's reaction. "But that means we have to leave Austria. And this house."

Liesl's eyes went wide.

"Tonight?"

"No, not tonight. But in a day or two. Before the weekend, certainly. They don't want me to leave, and they'll be watching me, so we are going to have to engage in some subterfuge. I have a plan, but it must be kept from your brothers and sisters. We will tell them only that I am sending you children on a short holiday before school begins, and you must help them pack a small knapsack each. Only what they can carry themselves."

"I can do that, Father."

He took a deep breath.

"That's not all. Here's what I'll need you to do next," and he went on to describe the next part of the plan to her.

"I suppose I can do that," Liesl said doubtfully.

"You can do it, darling," he said, with a confidence he didn't feel. "You must do it."

They spoke for a few minutes longer before Liesl kissed him good night She was halfway out the door when she stopped and turned back, wearing an uncharacteristically defiant expression.

"Father. You are asking me to do something for the family, and there is something you must do for us in return. You must take us to Nonnberg to say goodbye to Fraulein Maria."

"Come now, Liesl," he chuckled. "I happen to know that the seven of you already tried to see her without success. And not only that, you know that I know it!"

"Oh, but it will be different for you, Father," the girl said confidently. "You're a big naval hero!"

Georg could have told her that wasn't going to make a difference, but then he'd have to admit to the telephone calls he'd made to Nonnberg himself, inquiring without success after the little governess. Not that he could do anything to make up for his rudeness to her in the chaotic aftermath of their dance. If she'd fled out of anger, he deserved that; he just wanted to know that she was safe, unharmed.

"Very well, Liesl. Tomorrow, after lunch. But now that I think of it, there is one more thing. You may wish to – that is – well, it's possible we won't be coming back here for a very long time. You may wish to be sure you have," he fumbled, "a picture. You know. Or some of her things."

"Of Mother?" his daughter smiled sadly, and Georg could only nod in response. Would it ever get easier to talk to the children about their mother?

He stayed up late, sipping the last of the French brandy – no point in leaving it behind for the Germans to enjoy – and pondering the wisdom of leaving his children's fate in their oldest sister's hands.

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"Follow me."

The tall, sour-faced sister turned away from him and strode down dim corridor so fast that the skirts of her voluminous habit made an audible swish. Georg gave a last doubtful glance at his children, whom he'd left standing in a hopeful little clump in the middle of the busy courtyard, before obediently falling into step behind the woman, who'd introduced herself as Sister Berthe. She was nearly as tall as he was, and Georg had to double his pace for fear he'd lose sight of her as she led him through a warren of dark, narrow corridors, up a flight of stairs, down yet more corridors, through a set of double doors, and across a cavernous reception area that sat empty. She threw open another door and, stepping aside, motioned for him to enter.

"Reverend Mother will be with you in a moment," she informed him, before disappearing.

The last place Georg had ever expected to find himself was in Nonnberg Abbey, let alone in the Reverend Mother's office. Knowing that the sisters led a life of prayer and contemplation, he'd been surprised to find the courtyard, where they'd made him leave the children, bustling with activity. Young women in ugly, ill-fitting clothes stood in knots of twos and threes, their faces somber, one dabbing at her eyes with a wrinkled handkerchief. New postulants, he knew from Fraulein Maria's stories about life at the Abbey, but why so miserable? Despite himself, he'd been scanning the crowd for little governess, until he remembered that if they were able to see her at all, she'd be wearing a habit. He'd been steeling himself for that possibility when the tall, ill-tempered sister had come to collect him.

"You lot stay here. Not a word out of you," she had ordered the children, with a quelling look that he wished he could bottle and take home with him.

Here in Reverend Mother's office, things seemed deserted and oddly quiet. He was surrounded by a silence that seemed not peaceful, but rather full of dread. The room was cast in shadow. The yellow-leaded window allowed only a thin, dreary light, barely enough to illuminate the few massive pieces of dark oak furniture within. Even the air seemed heavy, a mix of incense, old age and damp stone walls. The sudden thought of Fraulein Maria imprisoned behind these walls made his heart twist.

"Captain von Trapp."

The Reverend Mother swept into the room and seated herself behind the desk, in a chair that looked more like a throne. Although shorter and rounder than her lieutenant, she exuded an air of authority Georg recognized instantly. He glanced at the chair next to her desk, but she didn't offer him a seat, so he remained standing.

"What do you want, Captain?" she said abruptly, tapping her fingers on the desk.

"I – well, it's not me. It's about my children, actually." Although Georg had initially written to the Abbey to inquire about a governess, and telephoned several times in the days after the party, he hadn't actually spoken to a nun in person since he was a schoolboy, and he found himself unaccountably flustered. "I mean I promised my children, that is. That I would inquire after Fraulein Maria. I know they've come here themselves, trying to see her, but I was hoping that if I interceded-"

"Captain," the old woman said wearily, "When you called here – six times, I believe - after Maria returned, we assured you that she arrived here safely. We told your children the same thing when they visited. Maria is well, and there is really nothing more for you or your children to worry about. Now," she said, rising, "I will see you out, Captain, and I am going to ask you not to call again. These are very difficult and dangerous times here at the Abbey, and we simply cannot be distracted by-"

Georg mustered every bit of authority he could.

"Reverend Mother. There have been certain developments. You must hear me out."

Her eyebrows arched in surprise.

"I mean, I beg your pardon, Reverend Mother, but – may I speak in confidence?"

He thought he saw the trace of a smile.

"This is not the confessional, Captain, but yes, I can assure you of that."

"The Germans have offered me a naval command," he said, watching her expression grow guarded and then relax as he hastened to add. "I can't possibly accept. Joining them would be unthinkable. But to refuse them will be fatal, for all of us. I've got to leave Austria as quickly and quietly as possible. I wouldn't mind so much for myself, but uprooting my children after everything they've been through-" he paused, conscious that he was letting the old woman assume he was referring to Agathe's death, not the recent departure of their governess. "I promised them I would try to make it possible for them to see her one last time."

Reverend Mother stood abruptly and strode over to the leaded window. She pushed it a little farther open, until a wedge of sunlight sliced across the floor, and looked out for a few moments before turning back to him with a nod.

"Very well, Captain. I'll allow it. She will be brought to see them in the courtyard."

"Thank you, Reverend Mother," he began, hurrying toward the door, but she put out a hand to stop him.

"Not you, Captain. Only the children. I'll send word to her. You stay here."

Georg was left to pace the room, unsure whether he was disappointed or relieved to know that he would not be present for the reunion. He decided that couldn't have borne it, to see her bright hair hidden by a wimple, her lithe form hidden in an ugly habit. Even though Elsa had far overestimated his feelings for the girl, there was no denying what she'd done for his family.

Eager for a distraction to pass the time, when he heard a boisterous clamor rising from below the window, he went to investigate. That was how he discovered that the window overlooked the courtyard where he'd left his children, who were now clustered around their former governess, prancing and whooping with joy. When she stopped to kiss the little girls, he lost sight of her for a moment in the midst of the jubilant throng, but then she stood again and he was able to study her carefully.

She wasn't wearing a habit after all. Instead, she wore a dress better suited for a six-year-old, the rough, faded blue material gathered loosely around a a high waist that hid her willowy curves. She had lost so much weight she looked very nearly gaunt, but her hair had grown out until it curled softly around her face into a halo of curls. The thing he noticed most of all, though, even from far above, was that her sparkle had somehow gone missing. While clearly happy to see the children, there was something tentative about her, a sadness below the surface he'd never seen before. Fraulein Maria had always rushed about as though she couldn't wait to get where she was going next, even when she didn't know where that was, but now she moved slowly and cautiously, as though wary of whatever awaited her.

Reverend Mother bustled back into the office.

"There. That's done. I've ordered some tea for us. They'll spend a half-hour together, and then I've told Maria she must come say hello to you."

The implication couldn't have been clearer: Maria had been ordered to appear, and was probably regarding that order the way he regarded his orders for Bremerhaven.

"Thank you, Reverend Mother."

"Oh, Captain, it's we who should thank you. It's rather nice, to have someone celebrating something around here for a change." The old woman gave a rueful laugh, and for the first time, Georg could see another side of her – a bit of warmth, and a very human weariness. "The Nazis have made their mark here as well, I'm afraid. They appear at our gates at all hours of the day or night, demanding to search the property from top to bottom. In the first days after the Anschluss, they seemed to be following some kind of procedure, but recently, it's turned ugly. They've become disrespectful, profane, even destructive. They were here last night," her face grew grave, and he saw a hint of fear in her gray eyes, "some of the soldiers behaved most inappropriately. Their officers did nothing to stop them, I'm afraid. And so, we're preparing to send the younger girls away. The novices, the postulants, and so on."

Was Maria still a postulant or had she taken her vows?

"Away?"

"They are not safe with those – those animals running wild. Not the postulants or novices, not even the younger sisters. We older ones will remain here, but we are sending everyone else back to their families."

The bunched little groups of girls, Georg now understood, were residents of Nonnberg waiting to be sent home to their families. His stomach churned with anger and disgust.

"As I understand it," he said casually, "Fraulein Maria has no family."

"Y-yes," Reverend Mother hesitated, when she was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. "Ah! There you are, Maria."

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It had been just as she'd expected, seeing the children. She'd tried to draw sustenance from it, to let their joy seep into the empty spaces, but having them here, where she'd felt safely away from all of that, was like tearing the scab from a not quite healed wound: the stinging pain that brought tears to your eyes, the raw, pinkish new thing revealed underneath it that was not quite ready to face the world. Their hugs and kisses were quite pleasant, but Maria found it difficult to concentrate on the conversation that followed, the way children were so concrete, so focused on their daily lives even while all around them, hearts were breaking and the world was falling apart.

So there was Gretl's finger, and Kurt's appetite, and Liesl's traitorous telegram boy to hear about.

"I was looking forward to boarding school," the girl told her, "although now, of course, I suppose we're not going to -" Liesl broke off suddenly.

"Oh, Liesl," Maria said quietly. "You can't use school to escape your problems. You have to face them."

Although wasn't that why she'd fled to the Abbey?

They wanted to sing for her, of course, proud to demonstrate that they'd kept up with their rehearsals. Then, too soon, Sister Berthe came to fetch her for the last part of the ordeal, the part she'd fought hardest to resist.

"Oh, no, Reverend Mother. Please. Please don't make me do that," she'd begged when the old woman had sought her out earlier. "I can't face him."

"Maria, these walls were not built to keep out problems."

It was the same lecture Reverend Mother had delivered when Maria had run away from the villa weeks ago. At the time, Maria had merely been embarrassed by Baroness Schrader's matter-of-fact revelations: Captain von Trapp was in love with his governess, and she – a postulant planning to dedicate her life to God – was in love with him, that was obvious, but so what? He'd get over it soon enough. Men did. Until that moment, Maria had somehow hoped that her feelings for the Captain, like a sweet wrapped in paper, could be kept hidden away and savored in secret until it melted away and she returned to the Abbey with no one the wiser.

But far worse than her girlish embarrassment was the mortifying humiliation that followed. No sooner had Reverend Mother forced her to admit that she was in love with the Captain, that the life she was meant to live might not be at Nonnberg Abbey, no sooner had she summoned every bit of bravado she could and prepared to return to the villa to claim it, than she'd been called back from the bus stop when word came that he had announced his engagement to Baroness Schrader.

Now, her old plans for the future lay in ashes, and she found it impossible to make new ones. Stuck between an old dream that was no longer hers to claim, and a new one she could not imagine, Maria let the days at the Abbey slip by as the memories tormented her, even in her sleep: his deep blue eyes catching and holding hers as he sang so beautifully to his family, his hand on her waist and breath on her cheek when they danced, his icy nonchalance afterward. She clung to these memories and hated herself for it; she loved and despised him, all at once.

She had missed the children dreadfully, of course. Their absence had torn a hole in her heart, but still, she sent back their letters and refused their visits. She could bear nothing that reminded her of him. And now Reverend Mother was asking her to see the children one last time, and worse, to speak briefly with the Captain. Something had changed, though Mother wouldn't say what. The old woman stood in the middle of the deserted postulants' dormitory, and waited for Maria's answer, but her natural air of authority had left little doubt as to the outcome.

"Maria. The sooner you begin, the sooner it will be over with."

"All right, Mother. I'll go to the children now, but I won't." For the first time in weeks, Maria felt a flicker of the old, rebellious spirit within. "I won't. I can't face him."

"Maria. Whatever happened between you this summer, from what you've told me, Captain von Trapp did nothing dishonorable. He is a fine man, and a brave one. He – well, I won't go into details, but his request is a reasonable one. As for your future, I am doing everything I can to keep you safe. But if you want me to help you, then you must help me. That's the way it works outside these walls, you know."

So now here Maria stood, outside Reverend Mother's office, limp from the round of teary good-byes with the children, and ready to face the last and most challenging part of the ordeal.

Her mind traveled back to the last time she'd seen the Captain: was it after their dance, when she'd obviously misread the tenderness in his eyes, or after his casual dinner invitation to her? "You can if you want to," he'd shrugged, as though she mattered no more to him than a speck of lint on his sleeve. No, the last she'd seen of him before leaving the villa, after leaving the note for the family, was when she'd peeked into the ballroom and seen him sweep Baroness Schrader into a waltz.

Maria wiped her clammy palms on her skirt and lifted her hand, heavy as a stone,, to knock on the door.

He greeted her with a small, formal bow, his face unreadable.

"Fraulein," he murmured.

"Come, Maria," Reverend Mother said. "Come had have a cup of tea, and I have your favorite biscuits here as well."

There was something almost comical, the way Reverend Mother was trying to hold a tea party while the two of them remained standing awkwardly on the edges of the room, Maria stubbornly refusing to abandon the doorway while he lingered stood by the window.

"No, thank you, Mother. How do you do, Captain?" She might as well get the worst part of it over. "May I be permitted to wish you every happiness? I understand you and the baroness are to be married."

She forced herself to lift her eyes to his face: handsome as ever, with those piercing blue eyes and that noble profile, although he looked uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Well. Actually." He shifted from one foot to the other. "There isn't going to be any Baroness. We've broken our engagement, you see."

"You did?"

A little sliver of sympathy lodged in Maria's heart. Did the broken engagement have anything to do with what Baroness Schrader had told her? But the very idea was ridiculous. The Captain didn't look heartbroken. He looked no happier to see her than he had that first day, when he'd evicted her from his ballroom.

"Yes." He looked warily in Reverend Mother's direction, before continuing. "I was telling Reverend Mother just now, that the Nazis have offered me a naval command. At Bremerhaven."

"But, Captain, you could never -" Maria blurted, and hated herself for feeling rewarded by his fleeting smile.

"You are correct, Fraulein. I cannot, and I will not. I had thought for some time that if it came to it, I would take the children to Italy. Having been born in what is now part of Italy, I have an Italian passport, as do the children. The Germans probably consider my family a distraction, and would be happy to see the children leave the country, but they've got to be convinced that I'm not planning to slip away right behind them, or they'll throw all of us in jail. I can manage to slip across the border on my own, and of course if I had married, then - well, now Liesl is going to have to look like she's in charge of the others when she takes them out of the country."

"Liesl?" Maria asked.

"Exactly," he shook his head, "I'm not sure. Not sure at all."

"Hm. What a shame," Reverend Mother remarked, peering thoughtfully over her steepled fingers, before adding, "Maria could take the children to Italy for you, if you'd like." She said it as casually as though she was suggesting a walk in the Abbey's garden.

"Mother!" Maria gasped.

"I appreciate the offer, Reverend Mother," the Captain said, looking as bewildered as Maria felt, "but I'm sure Fraulein Maria has no passport, and no one can cross the border without one. The Germans won't let her out, and the Italians certainly won't let her in."

"Hm," the old woman paused for only a moment before leaning forward and launching a second missile.

"You could marry her, Captain."

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Thanks to those who have left reviews. I don't own TSOM or its characters, I just love it to death.

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