BY MARIA AWQWSTA TRAPP With Ruth Murdoch
ILLUSTRATED BY JAMES HILL
VISITS THE LEPERS
The mother of the renowned singing Trapp family tells of their
unforgettable trip to Molokai, island of the "untouchables"
ODR plane headed for Molokai, the grim heap of
black rock that Robert Louis Stevenson had
once called "a pitiful place to visit and hell to
dwell in."
In those early days before Father Damien (a mis
sionary who dedicated his life to the colony in the
last century), it must have been hell no hospital,
no doctor, no priest; no food, no clothing, no houses;
with each fresh shipment of lepers being met on the
shore by hundreds of hostile "residents" who
pushed the newcomers back into the water in an
attempt to keep themselves from starvation.
We knew that Father Damien's coming had
changed all that; that he had stormed the govern
ment with repeated appeals for building materials,
water pipes, and financial aid; that, with his own
hands, he had carpentered over a thousand coffins
to bury his parishioners and had slept for many
weeks with the living on the bare ground. We knew
that every day he had faithfully dressed their
wounds, even after that historic Sunday morning
sermon, "And We Lepers," told his parishioners
that he, too, had contracted the disease.
We knew that Brother Joseph Dutton (who
was born in the Trapps' adopted home town of
Stowe, Vt), later had effected even better condi
tions in the settlement; but, just the same, as "we
actually flew over the precipice, the black rocks and
jagged coastline looked most unfriendly.
So with mixed feelings, we dropped steadily
down, past the 1,600 feet of gloomy rock, to the tiny
triangle of the leper settlement. We were somewhat
apprehensive. In all our travels, our only encounter
with lepers had been through the Gospels, in the
pleading entreaty of the poorest of the poor: "Lord,
if Thou wilt, Thou canst make us clean." And in the
compassionate answer: "I will. Be thou made clean."
Now we were to meet them face to face. My heart
beat wildly as we crossed the narrow landing strip
toward Father Logan (present-day successor to
Father Damien) and his group. As we greeted
Father, each one of us made a great effort not to
look too closely, not to give an impression of curi
osity; yet we could not help noticing their muti
lated features.
The sight drew from us such a wave of compas
sion that our one desire was to show that it did not
matter a bit, that we loved them all the more. With
outstretched hands I went forward, completely for
getting the instructions I had received: don't touch
the patients; don't touch anything they may have
touched.
What happened next pierced our hearts. The
whole row of people took a few steps back. Arms
and hands all vanished behind their backs; and,
though the poor featureless faces smiled at us, their
whole bearing signaled, "We are the untouchables."
Mary Martin shares an opening-night waltz with Maria
"Trapp, whom she plays in musical, "The Sound of Music."
Mercifully, Father Logan took over. We were
speeded into waiting cars, with our first des
tination to be Brother Dutton's grave in the ceme
tery of Kalawao, three miles away. The narrow dirt
road took us past many graves Buddhist, Catholic,
and Protestant until at last we found ourselves
standing in a little church graveyard close under
that dark perpendicular wall that had always so
impressed us in pictures.
Father Damien had built the church with his own
hands. Brother Dutton's grave was marked only
with a simple cross and an inscription: "Joseph
Dutton. Born April 27, 1843." Gently, Johannes
placed our Mount Mansfield pine wreath at the
foot of the cross.
Then we began to sing. How often have I felt
with deepest gratitude this great glory of our life
as a singing family: that, whenever words failed to
say what was taking place in our hearts, we could
always express it in music. We sang and sang and .
sang our whole New England repertoire until,
finally leaving, we sang a Te Deum, too, for Father
Damien by the spot where his grave had been be
fore his body was taken back to Belgium.
As Father Logan drove us back across the penin
sula, we were impressed to see many attractive lit
tle houses, each one surrounded by a beautiful
(From "A Family on Wheels" by Maria Augusta Trapp with Ruth T.
Murdoch, Copyright 1959 by Maria Augusta Trapp. By permission
of J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia and New York)
garden with flowering trees and bushes, each little
lanai covered with brightly blooming flowers.
"Those belong to the patients," Father explained,
and went on to tell us that these pretty, comfort
able cottages with their lava-stone walls -are pri
vately owned. The Territorial Government, through
the board of health, has done everything within its
power to provide for the comfort and accommoda
tion of these people.
"And now the sisters are waiting," Father said
suddenly, pulling his car to a stop in front of a low,
comfortable little house, half-hidden in the trees
and flowers of the hospital grounds. Three nuns,
dressed in white, were standing on the porch to
greet us and, as Father introduced Sister Hermine,
the superior of the Sisters of Saint Francis, I real
ized that we had all met before in their convent in
Syracuse, N. Y.
We had a fine reunion over lunch, while the
sisters patiently relived for us the story of their
Mother Marianne's first coming to the island 30
years before with five others, and of her firm and
reassuring prophecy: "No one of our sisters will
ever contract the disease."
To this day, not one has; but the one condition
specified by Mother Marianne, along with her
prophecy, was scrupulous cleanliness.
After lunch, Sister Hermine showed us through
the spacious, airy hospital, explaining, "The hos
pital is scrubbed every day, and everyone dealing
with the patients washes her hands immediately
afterward."
I noticed that she drew us past several closed
doors "the worst cases" and later, when we were
alone together for a few minutes, I pleaded with
Sister for permission to be allowed to visit some
of them. In her great kindness, she let me, and to
the end of my days I shall be grateful.
We called first on Lahale (Hawaiian for Ra
chel). She was sitting on her bed dangling what
had once been her legs. "Lahale," said Sister, "here
is the mother of the singing family, come to
visit you."
At that, Lahale. lit up and burst into a torrent
of questions. How was Ruper, and had Johannes
come along with us? She had read "The Story of
the Trapp Family Singers" and was so sorry that
I had lost my husband.
Obviously, it did not dawn on her that she had
any reason for complaining herself, but she was all
interest in the Trapp family and looking forward,
oh so much, to their evening concert
I was taken from room to room, through a living
sermon. These people were cheerful and happy,
completely resigned to God's Will, so interested in
( Continued on page 13)
Family Weekly, January 3, I960 7