Chapter 2 Maria's morning
Maria watched the sun rise from the window of her small room at the Abbey. The morning light barely penetrated the dim interior of the small cell where she'd hidden away for a week. Once again, she had slept only fitfully on the small cot, her mind and body near complete exhaustion. Turning away from the window, her nightgown clinging to her sweat-soaked body, she fell to her knees on the hard stone floor and began doing the only thing she could think of to do: pray. She had been praying for hours on end, ever since her return to the Abbey one week before. She prayed for the seven children she had abandoned. She prayed for herself. She prayed for the sisters at Nonnberg.
But the memories of that miserable night kept intruding, no matter how hard she tried to push them away, crowding in on even her most fervent prayers. She did not know which memory was more painful: the few joyful, almost magical minutes of dancing with the Captain? Or his offhand treatment of her afterward, when he had not even mentioned the children's performance, and left her to fend off Max's persistent dinner invitation? What a cold contrast he had offered to the Captain who had complimented her on the puppet show just weeks earlier, who had welcomed her ideas about the children, who seemed almost to seize on any excuse to strike up a conversation, and who had made clear to any guest treated Maria disrespectfully that she was most definitely under his protection. And then – the shameful memory made her blush – there was Baroness Schrader's matter of fact, enlightening, but ultimately devastating description of the Captain's true interest in her.
"He'll get over it soon enough I should think. Men do, you know. Of course, I don't believe the Captain – Georg," the Baroness corrected herself, with a fond little smile – "I don't believe he will ever, really, recover from the loss of his one great love. But men have their needs, and I suppose that even men whose hearts are spoken for can be, well, tempted to take advantage of a situation like this, with such a lovely young woman living under his nose. It won't last, my dear, you realize that? It would be a shame to distract you from . . . she paused, a pause full of meaning . . . well, Maria, I'm sure you'll make a very fine nun."
Worse than all those humiliations, perhaps, was the memory of her last heartbreaking moments at the villa. Standing just inside the front door, she had glanced nervously toward the ballroom, where the guests were gathering for dinner, trying not to think of him, and then allowed herself one last, yearning look upward, toward the doorway that led to the children's wing. Could it have been only a few months since she first saw them dash through that door, dressed in identical uniforms, in response to their father's whistle? And could it really be that her glimpse of them not an hour ago, waving goodbye to the guests and disappearing behind that door, would be the last time she would ever see their sweet faces?
She could hardly remember the rest of the night. Maria had barely set out on the dark road back to Salzburg when clouds moved in overhead, and the skies opened up. It had turned out that thunderstorms could, indeed, be frightening after all. Two hours later, soaking wet, shivering, she arrived at Nonnberg with barely enough strength to ring the bell. When Sister Anna came to the gate, her eyes widened with shock, but she simply beckoned Maria in and scurried off to get help. It was the Mother Abbess herself who led Maria, docile as a child, to one of the individual cells, helped her dry off and change into a warm nightgown. Through chattering teeth, Maria tried to offer some kind of explanation, but the Mother Abbess said, gently, "Go to sleep, Maria. We can talk about this tomorrow." By now a week had passed, and Maria found herself still unable to speak a word aloud about her time at the villa.
But how can I ever be ready to talk? Maria wondered. How can I begin to explain what happened, how many mistakes I made? Not the mistakes of an unruly girl, sliding down banisters and climbing trees, but mistakes that brought shame on my reputation and likely the Abbey's, mistakes that hurt seven motherless children? Dear God, she prayed. Forgive me. Forgive me for forgetting that I was pledged to your service, that I allowed myself to lose sight of Your divine will, for being shameless enough to allow myself to be ruled by lust (was it lust? She was not sure about that, having had so little experience with these things, but she understood his motives well enough, now). Forgive me for losing sight of my true purpose – to prepare those children for their new mother. Instead, out of vanity and selfish pride, I allowed them to come to depend on me, to love me, only to abandon them.
She heard a soft knock on the door. Tugging it open, Maria expected to find on the hallway floor a tray with a cup of milk and a few slices of bread, the same breakfast that had been there every morning. But today, there was Sister Margarethe holding the tray, her dear, kind face radiating concern and love, bustling into the small cell that could barely hold them both. "Maria, my child, you have hardly touched the food we have left for you. Whatever happened . . . whatever is bothering you . . . please, my child, won't you tell me? Or if you wish, won't you go to confession?"
Maria shook her head, and looked down at the floor, silent. She did not even know where to begin.
Sighing, Sister Margarethe put down the tray. "I hope your prayers bring you comfort, Maria. And – should you wish to do something with your hands, something to take your mind off things, I have brought a small basket of mending as well. You have always been such an active girl, I thought it might help you feel better to be . . . busy with something." She searched Maria's face for a moment, clearly worried by what she saw there, shook her head, and left.
When the door closed, Maria took a deep breath. Her mind, her heart, her very soul, were still in turmoil, and she reminded herself to keep breathing deeply, hoping that she might absorb the healing calm of the Abbey's stone walls. Idly, she wandered over to the tray, her eyes drifting to the basket of mending. Socks, thread, needles, scissors. Perhaps keeping busy will help, she thought, rummaging through the basket. She closed her eyes to chase away memories of teaching the von Trapp girls to sew – they had been working on a quilt together, the little girls cutting out colorful squares, the older ones carefully stitching them together. What would happen to that quilt now? Spoiled, she thought, desolate, but angry at herself. I ruined that quilt as certainly as if I had torn it apart, as if I had stained it with my conceit, my foolishness. Maria's eyes fell on the scissors. Her hands went to her neck, running through the curls that had begun to grow there throughout the summer. Vanity, she thought. You were secretly pleased when Liesl fussed over the way the sun played on those curls. What in heaven's name was a postulant doing growing her hair? Impulsively, Maria took the scissors to her curls, and with three or four deft snips, watched them fall to the floor. There was, of course, no mirror in the small, humble room, so she could not see the results of her work, but she felt better, somehow, having made this gesture of expiation.
How she longed to see the children even one more time! She felt an almost physical ache being separated from them, as though a part of her body had been severed. The two littlest girls were constantly climbing into her lap or throwing their arms around her, never suspecting that their caresses nurtured her as surely as she cared for them. Clever Brigitta, who was starting to come out from behind the shelter of her beloved books. Friedrich, who told the best stories about their mother to the younger ones, keeping her memory alive. Louisa, whose prickly demeanor was quickly forgotten when she opened her mouth to sing with the soprano of an angel. Kurt, who had every highlight of his father's military career memorized. And Liesl . . . Liesl, who had been forced to grow up so fast, to be the closest thing possible to a mother for her siblings, and was now reveling in being able to be a girl again. No matter what I did wrong, I got through to those children, Lord, surely that counts in my favor?
And then there was their father. His handsome face rose up before her, his dark eyes and tantalizing half-smile so real that she thought she might almost reach out and touch him. Despite the stuffy warmth of her cell, she shivered, remembering his breath on her cheek during the last moments of their dance. She tried to remind herself that the Captain was a difficult person, more difficult than any Mistress of Postulants. He was demanding, easily irritated, distracted by his guests and the bad news from Berlin and capable of scorching sarcasm - but even then, Maria noticed, he never barked at Frau Schmidt, or the children, the way he did at her, as though he knew that I could handle it. It was not my imagination that he treated me differently from the other servants, I just did not understand why, until the Baroness explained it to me. I should be angry at him for his part in this, she thought, for his dishonorable intentions. But somehow, I can't believe it. What the Baroness told me makes sense and yet . . . it does not. Perhaps because she'd been left to fend for herself from such an early age, Maria had always been a shrewd judge of character. She could see the good in the worst-behaved child, and behind the façade of the best; it was why she was such a good teacher and had so quickly found ways to connect to the von Trapp children. Reverend Mother told me he was a fine man, and while at first I thought she was mistaken, the more I saw of him, the more I understood how true that was. Were that deep blue gaze and tender half-smile really the face of evil?
Something besides anger and doubt flickered in Maria's heart as well, something she could barely name. Never had anyone looked at her the way he did that evening, during the last moments of their dance together. His eyes seemed to see all the way into her soul, to take possession of her. The world fell away, the music was silenced; she knew only the way their shoulders brushed, the feel of his hand on her waist. Is this what people in love feel like?, Maria wondered. When the silly boys and girls I grew up with talked about love, was this what they meant? She had hardly been able to endure the intensity of his gaze, yet she could not look away until he did, at once disappointed and relieved when Baroness Schrader interrupted . .
"I am going mad," Maria whispered out loud, although only the stone walls heard her. "I have finally created a mess I cannot run away from."
Another soft knock at the door. "Maria," came Sister Margarethe's kind voice again. "I know you've asked not to be disturbed. But the Mother Abbess has asked to see you."