Singer

When summer came, off I went to New England for a week of rehearsals with the youth orchestra. Then off to Poland. I'd never flown in an airplane before, never left North America, never been away from home for more than a few days. Here we were flying over the Atlantic for what seemed an eternity. Carl had smuggled on a mango and wondered if I'd like to taste one. That was another first. As we lurched and bobbed up and down in the sky during landing, that mango made me as sick as a mule.
We landed in what was then a communist country. From growing up in the US during the 60s, I was well aware that the communists were the ones who were the Big Threat. Russia was purportedly going to bomb us with an atom bomb, prompting all those air raid drills at school. Poland wasn't far away from Russia, I reminded myself.
There were a whole bunch of us kids, traveling with enormous instrument cases, full of horns--the bells of which were packed with our clothing. We had made use of every square inch of space: the harp case housed all our performance gowns, hanging upright. Unsmiling customs agents searched every bag, every suitcase and instrument. People in line behind us stared at the contents of our bags, lying out on the table for everyone to see.
There was an atmosphere of depression and gloom. I did not like how it felt to be there. We had been told that we would be watched, that quite possibly one of our interpreters was an agent of the State, sent to spy on us. Very intimidating.

Our first stop was a large public restroom in the city square. Our 13-year old concertmaster had to go to the bathroom. He disappeared down the stairs of a cinder block structure, in a real hurry. Momentarily, he came running out the door, aghast with concern. Behind him charged a squarish woman, shaking a chair leg in the air over his head. The bus driver intercepted her as she rushed up the steps into the bus. Apparently, every bathroom had a woman whose job it was to keep toilet paper stocked and the facilities clean. She was usually an older, matronly woman, sitting in a straight-back chair inside the bathroom, a small collection basket in her lap. I thought that I'd better watch my step in this country.

I've written about what happened during our first concert that day. I learned to soar without wings. When I entered that first ancient cathedral--my first cathedral--I was a nervous 15-year old girl. When I left, I had experienced magic. The power of music had become something that I had to have, over and over. It had been such a thrill to be capable of singing the beautiful music that echoed from one end of the cathedral to the other. It was marvelous to have as large a voice as I had, that would completely fill all the space in the building. People liked it, too.

We traveled to Auschwitz one dreary, drizzly day. I stood where a faithful Catholic priest gave his life at the firing post, and died in place of the man with seven children waiting at home. I stood in the barracks, touched the ovens, saw the bins of human hair and eye glasses. The horror of it stays with me to this day. That evening, while the orchestra played Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings, there were tears in many of the player's eyes. The ascending chords and intensity of the piece seemed to pull us back to the despair and hideousness of humanity's worst hour.

We went to the famous Polish salt mines, where there was an underground chapel complete with salt chandeliers. We sang several songs down there, much to the delight of the other visitors.
Because we were guests of the State, we were given some marvelous meals. It was the first time I ever ate chicken (I grew up in a mostly vegetarian household). Our breakfast breads were delicious, full-bodied, and slathered with real butter and currant jelly. We had sliced hard boiled eggs, cucumbers and tomatoes for breakfast with big mugs of black tea. We also had some foods that should not be given to adolescents: Rhubarb-noodle soup. Milk over there was not refrigerated. It was not pasteurized, so when it got old, it merely separated. Yup--that was the soup base with big curds, clumps of rhubarb (which most of us loathed, I found out), and thick noodles. But no one can hold a candle to Polish ice cream. There is nothing like it.

Midway through our month concert tour, we hopped over to Vienna for what in my church, is called General Conference: a meeting of church leaders and delegates from the entire world church. It lasted for a week or so and ended with a gala concert by us. We were to perform Beethoven's Choral Fantasy, as well as a couple original works for solo quartet and orchestra. Our rehearsals for this event were quite interesting to me. We sang against an enormous festival chorus, composed of singers from around the world. As I walked past the German singers, I didn't know how to say, "Excuse me" so I repeated what I'd heard my father say: "Bitte..." I got "Bitte" in return that sounded like, "You bet, baby!" I'd never been spoken to in that way before, and I liked it.
When the conductor called for the soloists to come to the podium to rehearse our numbers, I walked to the front and took my place next to people who were old enough to be my parents. There was a tenor from the Vienna Opera, a French professional recital baritone, a tenor from Iceland, two sopranos from our tour group and me. The Icelandic man was warm and seemed attracted to me somehow--he kept hugging me to him. I wasn't so sure about that. But the other two professional singers would hardly look at me. They seemed insulted by my presence or something. But the orchestra began to play the introduction to the first number and off we went. By the end of that first number, they were looking at me in an admiring way. I was a bit embarrassed, since I didn't know how to respond to them. But it was also very nice--validating. I began to understand that I had an incredible voice that fit in with professional adult singers' voices. I could do this.

I was now a singer.

The last night in Poland, we were slated to perform for the leader of the Polish people. At the last moment, we learned that Gerald Ford would be present. We were carefully coached on how to behave, not to make sudden moves, to do our best, and to be polite. It was a fairly small hall in a beautiful palace in Warsaw--the name of which escapes me just now. As we sat silently waiting, we heard footsteps coming down the hall and men's voices. In came the Polish premier, Gerald Ford, Henry Kissinger, and about 20 other people whom I did not recognize. We burst into applause. After a few comments, we played and sang for them. I was taken aback by Henry Kissinger belching loudly during our performance. And I kept staring at the president. Our Mr. President.
When the concert was finished, President Ford stood, thanked us all, and exited along with the other dignitaries. We again applauded as they left. Then the rush was on to get downstairs, change into travel clothes, pack up the instruments, and race over the airport where our plane had been held up 30 minutes for us. As I was pulling my dress off over my head, the cry was heard, "The President is back! He wants to see us!" We pulled on our clothes again and rushed upstairs to the concert hall. There stood Gerald Ford, without Secret Service, hugging and shaking hands with the couple orchestra members who were present. We descended on him. He was so gracious and warm. I got to shake his hand, as he systematically reached forward to greet every single orchestra member. We were with him about 10 minutes. Suddenly the doors to the room burst open and the Secret Service rushed in, surrounding the President. "It's okay boys," he said. "These are our finest." I reached past one agent and met his concerned glare with a smile. As we stepped back from him, Mr. Ford motioned for silence. He said something to this effect: "I want to thank you for representing the United States tonight. No one could have done it better than you did. You made me proud and I want to thank you for that." We again burst into furious applause as the Secret Service herded him out the door.
We found out later that he had gone upstairs after our concert but said to Betty, "I want to go see those kids downstairs." So he found the back stairs and came back to see us. He had evaded the Secret Service for 20 minutes. No wonder they were worked up!

As we boarded the airplane, I was leaving a different person than when I landed there four weeks earlier. I had sung in factories, concert halls, cathedrals. I had received standing ovations, armfuls of flowers from children and adults. I had been respected, supported, and approved by other outstanding musicians who were my very own age and who were also "different" in the way I was. I was not alone any longer, even though I didn't know anyone like them or me back where I grew up.

My parents came to Boston to pick me up at the airport. They were excited for me, as I regaled them with stories all the way back home. I also got quite a scolding: I'd never written home while I was gone, I'd been so consumed with everything that I was getting to see, hear, and experience.

I looked the same as I had before I left. But very little inside my head was the same. I'd seen something different--that fit me.