Recently, when enjoying my tea and Black Forest cake in Cafe Vienna in Princeton, I picked up a copy of German Life Magazine. Before long, my mind was traveling over the Alps, and lo an behold, I quickly booked a visit to Ascona. Oh, and then there is Vienna, and Munich, and Prague… and many other places which you would enjoy learning about when your read my book My Life with Berti Spranger! The original inspiration for the book came also at Cafe Vienna, after Spranger’s amazing art work was exhibited at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York last year.
In the meantime, here’s a quick summary! A picture is worth a thousand words, right? And, here comes the opening chapter!
VIENNA: AUGUST 2014
Vienna, one of my ancestral homes, is a city of old-fashioned elegance where the Viennese dress in fine clothes to shop for milk and eggs, and look down their noses on tourists in skimpy dresses, shorts, and sandals. In the summer, no matter how high the mercury, men sport their conservative ties and jackets, and ladies appear in traditional nylons and low-heel shoes for their sensible morning chores.
When my Embraer landed in Schwechat, the airport shimmered with heat. After a quick check with the officials, my pilots stayed behind to park the plane, deal with the rest of formalities, and wait for further orders. It was a short flight from Amsterdam, and I intended the visit as a quick turnaround after my business concluded.
It was unpleasantly hot. As the limo passed through the traffic lights unimpeded, the city looked deserted. But not surprisingly, the Graben, Vienna’s famous promenade for the rich and poor alike, was bustling as far as the eye could see. I kept to the shady side, walking close by elegant store fronts, perspiring heavily in the August sun. Across the huge square, near the plague column, a line of tourists in front of a gelato shop grew long.
I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my linen jacket, and joined them.
The line moved slowly. Nearby, visitors of all ages and nationalities, single and with families, enjoyed coffee with their late breakfast, sheltered under the heavy canopy of an outdoor restaurant, with waiters running in and out.
“Visiting, are you?” A plump woman with an American accent broke the silence as her short husband joined her in line.
“Umm,” I replied, as my cell rang. A barrage of words hit my ear.
“Dank u! Begrepen. I will be there, for sure!”
She pursed her lips. “Oh, goodness. You’re not an American?”
I tried to be polite.
“Pieter Van de Graeff, at your pleasure! I am Dutch. Aren’t all Dutch blond, M’am?”
“So you are…”
Her chatter ran by me, being miles away in thoughts.
Why was Opa Johann von Graben-Stein, and not Van de Graeff? Peter, our first ancestor, was a dour, uneducated apprentice to a stone mason, earning him a nickname Grabstein.
A grave stone!
Before long, Peter’s manly charms caught the attention of a young Habsburg prince, who ennobled him for services left conspicuously blank in our ancient family bible. He had a scribe record his words, followed by his enterprising descendants. They spread their seeds across the continent, eventually merging our line with the Van de Graeffs. For centuries our blood was blue, but it became extinct. Not that it matters, except that Opa never told me why he had changed his name back from the Dutch line. His secret went to his grave.
I, the last descendant, love my name. After all, a Graeff is a “count.”