Oh, my love, my darling
I've hungered for your touch
A long, lonely time
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine?
I need your love
I need your love
God speed your love to me
Lonely rivers flow
To the sea, to the sea
To the open arms of the sea,
Lonely rivers sigh
"Wait for me, wait for me"
I'll be coming home, wait for me
(Unchained Melody)
Chapter 36. Fugitive: Part 2
Georg lay in pitch blackness on a hard bed, unable to move. Where was he? What had happened? He tried to speak but couldn't make a sound. Submerged in panicked confusion, he felt the terror of the unknown lurking at the edges of his frozen, blank mind.
The only thing that was working well was his hearing. Around him, as if he were in a great cavernous hall he could hear singing; hymns. A part of his brain recognized the solemn, austere music: Gregorian chants. Unadorned by musical instruments, the pure eternal beauty of the deep tones sounded celestial, heavenly.
But Georg was shaken with horror. Oh dear God, was he dead? The terrifying thought shot through him like a bolt of lightning.
No! No! No! he wanted to roar. No, he couldn't be dead. He had too much to live for. He needed to….
Without warning the blackness claimed him again and he fell, figuratively, into an abyss of unconsciousness.
The next time he emerged from the darkness, it was slowly, like a U-boat surfacing cautiously from the depths of the sea. A memory tingled in his confused state: U-boat commander. Was that him once?
The singing was still there, calming, soaring, reverential. His mind frantically tried to make sense of everything, but it was as if all his thoughts and memories had shattered and lay at his feet like shards of glass. He picked up one piece in his mind: a face, a dearly loved, radiant face, with sparkling blue eyes and hair like spun gold, a mischievous smile. It made his heart clench with yearning.
"Maria" he whispered achingly. Please God do not let me be dead. I need to go to her. We just got married….he pleaded.
He picked up another treasured fragment in his mind. "The children." He wanted to weep. The children needed him. He clung on to those fragile pieces of memory as if his life depended on it, and drifted back to sleep.
The next time he awoke, the pain was waiting like an avalanche to crash into his helpless body. Agonizing waves of it washed over him. It seemed to burrow into the very marrow of his bones. Excruciating, inescapable, vicious. Please make it stop, he prayed. His head felt as if it had been cleaved in two. But amidst the agony was the welcome thought: that meant he couldn't be dead. Could it?
"Maria," he breathed, still desperately clinging to the precious image of her, a source of comfort and strength. It momentarily held the evil pain at bay. His eyelids were still too heavy to open.
"Easy, my son. Calm yourself." The voice in the black void sounded soothing.
Someone had heard him. He wasn't alone. He felt someone moving him, even though the pain lanced through him as sharply as a surgeon's knife, something welcoming was poured down his throat. The pain eased.
"It's a draught of laudanum," the voice murmured.
The blessed relief from the pain enabled a picture to form in his mind.
It was snowing, delicate flakes were swirling and falling softly on his hair and face, as gentle as a caress. From somewhere in his mind came the tender little riff: "Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes." A flash of a sweet memory of singing, but gone instantly.
No, this memory was a nightmare.
He was running, running faster than he ever had in his life. He was being hunted. Every gasping breath felt like razor blades in his lungs. He was sucking in the icy cold air even though it burned into his chest. He needed it to power his legs to move faster. The snow crunched under his feet with the pounding of his boots, praying he wouldn't stumble. He could feel his heartbeat roaring in his ears. In every single moment his body was waiting in agonized dread for the zing of a bullet to hit him in the back. Waiting for the searing pain that would draw the lifeforce out of him. Part of his mind accepted that he could not survive this. They would kill him.
Who? Who would kill him? Then he remembered: the Nazis. Oh Christ.
Through dry lips he rasped out a word, hoping that someone would hear. "Where…" Where am I, he wanted to ask.
The kindly voice understood though.
"You are in Hungary. In the Pásztó Monastery."
Georg grasped the last word gratefully. Monastery? So that would explain the Gregorian chants, he thought with relief. He wasn't in heaven.
Then wait..., the rest of the information penetrated. Hungary? He was free? He was out of the Third Reich! He wanted to fall on his knees in gratitude, in exultation. Thank God, Thank God.
The quiet voice continued. "From our monastery high on the hill, we could see you trying to cross the border from Czechoslovakia. You were dodging through the trees, a soldier from the Third Reich was chasing you. He looked young. Mercifully, he was alone. He had his gun drawn and he was shouting at you.
Georg remembered the voice, "Halt! Halt! Or I'll shoot!" A youthful voice trying to sound commanding, not yet a man, and thank heavens, not yet fully one of them.
"We watched and we prayed for you. All of us. We could not believe it when the boy did not shoot. It was a miracle. The hand of God protected you, my son, we are convinced of it."
A hand patted his arm comfortingly.
"And then you fell into a crevasse and our hearts plunged with you. The boy watched you fall and then after a while he left. That night we came to get you, quietly crossing the border, convinced you were dead but still hoping you weren't. Fortunately the crevasse was shallow. Probably a branch saved you. You were breathing. We brought you here more than a week ago."
Georg's mind devoured the information greedily. Fragile wisps of memory floated past. But each time he tried to snatch at them they disappeared like smoke in the wind.
"You carry a medallion around your neck of Saint Ignatius, the patron saint of the military. The holy saint must have been watching over you."
Georg wanted to open his eyes to look at the monk speaking to him but his eyelids were too heavy and his whole body felt broken. He wanted to tell him - My wife gave me that medallion as a wedding gift. To protect me. But he had no strength to speak.
"We also saw your military identity tags around your neck, the ones from the Great War. That's how we know who you are: Captain Georg von Trapp."
Georg listened gratefully as each piece of the puzzle was put back together, giving him back his identity. But thinking exhausted him. He was asleep once again.
ooooOOOOoooo
The Gregorian chants came several times a day, nudging him out of slumber. The ancient, sacred music offered spiritual nourishment, soothing him in spite of his never-ending physical pain. It was beautiful in its simplicity, sublime even. Maria would adore it. Max would love the music too, but the cunning scoundrel would probably try to sign the monks up if he could. Georg wanted to chuckle but that would hurt his bruised ribs.
In moments of lucidity he thought of his injuries and did an inventory, relieved that he could move everything. But he would have more scars once he healed. More scars that Maria would likely kiss and caress, like she had upon discovering his old ones after they married. A deeply touching memory came to him, making him crave her warm, intrinsically optimistic presence even more. He was overwhelmed by her ability to transform something painful into something rare and exquisite.
Georg was sitting at his desk in his study working on some documents while Maria contentedly wandered around exploring his previously private sanctum. He heard her gasp of pleasure and came over to see what had caused it. She was looking at a pottery bowl on a shelf, a charming little thing he had bought when he had sailed on a ship to Japan as an officer-in-training, long ago.
"Kintsugi," she murmured in delight.
Georg looked blank at the unfamiliar word. He didn't know anything about the ceramic but it had caught his eye because the fragments of broken pottery which made up the bowl had been sealed back together with a lacquer brushed with gold powder. The golden veins that had mended the broken bowl shone luminously, giving an unusual, riveting beauty to it.
"Kintsugi," she repeated at his questioning look. "It's an ancient style of fixing broken ceramics that the Japanese used. I read about it when I was in Teacher's College. I love it because it celebrates the special beauty and story that comes with imperfection and flaws. I've never seen a real example before, only in pictures," she said happily.
He gave it to her and watched as her fingers delicately traced the gold seams that held the bowl together, highlighting the fractures.
After a long moment she explained, "To me it seemed like a wonderful metaphor for the bad things that had happened in my life. I had been trying to hide the sad, wounded parts from my childhood when I was at college. But the philosophy behind Kintsugi seemed to be telling me instead to celebrate those broken, painful places in me, as well as to value the mistakes I had made; that I could take pride in having overcome them. The healed scars not only made me stronger but shaped who I am."
Georg listened in awed amazement. She had previously mentioned some things about her uncle that made Georg want to find him and teach him a few painful lessons. But instead, he realised with wonder, in typical Maria style, she had found a way to understand what had happened and a way to appreciate overcoming the damage that had been done. Like the gold seams in the pottery, her scars radiated light and hope, and made her better and stronger than she had been before.
She put the bowl down and turned to embrace him. "It's the same with you, darling," she said gently. "I know you haven't forgiven yourself for the way you were with the children after losing Agathe, but now look at you. What a wonderful father you are, possibly even better than before you lost Agathe. You learned from those missteps and it has made you even closer to the children. They adore you. You cherish every moment with them. It's just like the grief that you had over Agathe - it showed the depth of your love for her. Those painful things make you the extraordinary man you are now."
Georg couldn't speak, too touched by her words. He was stunned that she could find something to honour in the awful mistakes he had made. He just held her closely, thanking God for her, then reached behind her to pick up the bowl, looking at with new eyes.
"How did you get to be so wise, so optimistic, my love?" he murmured tenderly.
Later that night, as she often did, she kissed each of the physical scars he had from his life in the military. There was the burn on his back from a burst pipe in the U-boat, the skin there was thin and puckered, still sensitive all these years later; there was a jagged scar along his arm where a piece of falling metal had gashed open a wound; and the small scar on his chin where the periscope had swung wildly hitting him in the face, when a depth charge had exploded near the U-boat. She lovingly traced each scar with her fingers then kissed it tenderly, murmuring "kintsugi" like a healing incantation. He couldn't remember ever being so moved.
The soft, dreamy focus of the memory gave him a burst of golden energy, lulling him back to sleep with a peaceful smile. He wished he had given her that bowl to take when they left Austria. But perhaps they didn't need it. The unique beauty was inside each of them, as she had taught him.
ooooOOOOoooo
Hours passed, perhaps days, he didn't know as he drifted in and out of awareness. He was able to open his eyes and see the monk sitting with him. He had a calm, wrinkled face, full of the grace of a deeply spiritual person. A simple rope tied his brown robes. His hair was cut in that peculiar style of monks.
"You must regain your strength, my son," he admonished gently. He gave Georg a nutritious broth several times a day. But Georg could feel his strength ebbing. The months of a frugal diet and the harshness of life on the run had weakened his body. He was struggling.
More time passed. A doctor visited regularly, he knew that from the expert probing and prodding.
As he lay, floating in the dark velvet haze of pain medicine, he could hear disembodied voices and wondered idly who they were talking about.
"… condition deteriorating…"
"…too weak to be moved to the hospital…"
"…rattle in his chest…"
"…pneumonia…"
Pneumonia. That wasn't good. Poor fellow, whoever they were talking about, Georg thought drowsily, his mind wafting, listlessly. Pneumonia was often fatal. He had seen that too many times during the Great War. Why was it called the Great War he pondered, when it had been the most hideous, vicious event imaginable. So much unspeakable suffering. Men killing men for no good reason.
He gave up concentrating on the Hungarian conversation going on around him. It was a very unusual language, and it had never been his strong point at the Naval Academy in Fiume. An elusive memory tugged at him. An enraged instructor was snarling at him. "Cadet von Trapp, how can you serve the Empire if your Hungarian is so poor?" He wanted to argue that he already knew five damn languages.
Best keep that memory from Kurt he thought wryly. His beloved son also disliked learning too many languages. He felt a burst of intense emotion. Images of the sweet innocent faces of his children came and went, giving him a brief surge of strength. Love was a powerful healing balm.
But it wasn't enough.
He became aware of a crushing pain in his chest. It felt like there was a great boulder weighing on his body. Even breathing was becoming difficult. He was gasping, feeling the anxious fear of not being able to draw enough air into his lungs. Was he drowning or suffocating? Which would be worse? His chest was hurting more and more.
Could someone please remove the goddamn rock resting on my chest he wanted to demand. Then felt guilty about swearing, even in his mind. He was in a house of God, after all. And these monks had saved his life.
He was drenched in sweat, as if he were on fire. Another memory appeared from nowhere. He was a young cadet, training on a warship. "Cadet von Trapp, as punishment for being late back from shore leave, you will be manning the ship's furnace."
He hated that furnace, it was like some huge, malevolent beast waiting to suck him into its fiery depths. Every time he opened it to shovel coal in, it would roar ferociously and the wave of intense heat coming from it would nearly knock him down. Looking into its depths was like seeing the pits of hell. He must be there again, he thought. How else could he be so damned hot.
And then he was so cold. Suddenly his teeth were chattering, as if he had been dipped in ice. As a boy he had gone ice swimming with his brother. The memory was rueful. Ten and twelve years old and full of bravado, egging each other on. Plunging into the frigid depths of the lake had been a tremendous shock, as if his heart had stopped suddenly. It had been horrible, though neither would admit it, and each had sworn to themselves never to do it again. So why was he practically convulsing with chills now?
Through his shaking, trying to feel warm again, he told himself that he must remember to tell Maria that story about his brother. They had so much to tell each other. There were still newlyweds, taking delight in each new facet revealed about the other. An Aladdin's cave of riches to discover and treasure, all that awaited them in their life together.
"…not responding to the Sulfonamide drugs…" The voices were worried.
And then a new voice spoke.
"Georg can you hear me? I am Ludwig von Hoyos, Agathe's cousin, John Whitehead's nephew."
A vague memory, flimsy, ephemeral came. Yes, Georg thought, Agathe's cousin, that would be John Whitehead's sister's son. He struggled to keep the information from evaporating into thin air.
"Georg, the monks contacted me. They somehow realised we are related and I came immediately."
Georg managed to prise open his eyes a slit. Of course: Agathe's cousin was a Hungarian Count. Count von Hoyos. How had he forgotten that? Though truth be told he had only met him once. How nice that he was paying a visit. Georg wanted to make polite small talk but he felt as weak as a kitten. He needed all his strength to breathe.
"I've contacted John and Elisabeth in England. Georg, listen to me, you need to fight this. You have pneumonia."
Fight. Fight for a future free of tyranny. Powerful words from…whom? Ah yes, General Towarek, words that touched his soul. He had to fulfil his duty to Austria.
Fight pneumonia? Is that why it hurt to breathe? Suddenly he was afraid. Disease killed. Disease would stop him from seeing Maria. Oh God, Maria, my love, my dearest love. The children. I'm not ready to die, was his last tormented thought before a feverish sleep stole over him again.
ooooOOOOoooo
Maria was startled by a sudden knocking on her door. She opened it, only to gape in surprise at John. He looked out of breath and agitated.
"Maria, I've just come from London. I got a telegram from my nephew Ludwig in Hungary. They've found Georg."
Incredulous disbelief kept her still and then the elation came in a great rush. Oh thank God, thank the merciful Lord.
"But the news isn't good Maria. He's sick. He's gravely ill with pneumonia. He also has injuries from a fall."
Oh please God, no. From the heights of joy Maria plunged into despair. She couldn't utter a single word, shock kept her immobile and mute.
"As soon as I heard, I went to Alexander Fleming's laboratory in St Mary's Hospital. He's been working on an experimental drug. It's untried. It hasn't been released for use yet, but it may be our only hope. It's called Penicillin. I persuaded him to give me several draughts of it."
He wiped a hand over his brow. "I'm flying out immediately to the Continent. There's a British Imperial Air flight leaving in two hours which will take me to Venice, stopping to refuel in Paris. From there I need to get to Hungary."
"Take me with you, oh please, take me with you. I need to see him." Maria begged.
"I'm sorry Maria, that will cause delays and there's no time to lose. I need to get this medicine to him. The Foreign Office gave me a diplomatic passport and the necessary visas to cross several countries. I convinced them that Georg would have vital intelligence information on the Third Reich to help us. It would take too long to make arrangements for you. But give me something of yours to give to Georg. It will give him strength."
"Yes, yes, of course." Maria looked around her room frantically, she saw the opera cape that Georg seemed to love. He adored wrapping or unwrapping her tenderly in it. It carried joyful memories for both of them. She gave it to John.
"Maria, I have to be honest with you. I don't know if he can be saved. But I can only try."
Maria nodded, the anguish beating desperately in her chest like a trapped bird.
"Now I have to run." He meant it literally. Maria watched stunned, as John, usually so unruffled and dignified, actually ran to the waiting car and chauffeur.
"Godspeed," Maria whispered as the car sprayed up gravel from its tires as it accelerated away.
Elisabeth came out to the driveway and wrapped her arms around Maria as sobs broke out in both of them. Thankfully the children were all in school so Maria would have some hours to compose herself. She spent them praying.
The wait was agonizing. She couldn't tell the children yet because she could barely cope herself, her mind was on a knife edge of anxiety. Waiting, waiting. Every moment was filled with her prayers. One day, two, three, four days, the time dragged endlessly.
Finally the message came by telegram.
Condition stable. Stop. Some improvement Stop.
oooOOOOooo
AN: Penicillin was first widely used to treat bacterial pneumonia in 1942 with astonishingly good results. I know that an untested drug would never be given out like this, but this is fanfiction :)
Agathe's cousin really was a Hungarian Count. The complicated Whitehead family tree can be found on the 'Georg and Agathe von Trapp Foundation' website.
The real Maria mentioned in her memoirs that Georg had travelled to Japan when he was in the navy. I doubt he would have picked up a kintsugi ceramic, but I thought the concept of kintsugi fitted well with the TSOM Maria, and her generous optimistic nature.
Thank you for reading and I would love to know your thoughts. xx