Stand Up Straight and Sing! (20 page)

Before this unimaginable day I had spent three months in Durham, North Carolina, living on something now deemed to be unhealthy—the rice diet—and studying conversational German, which I audited at Duke University with a visiting professor from Berlin. Now, with this invitation to have my debut in Berlin in six months, both the rice diet and my conversational German studies took on totally new meaning. I worked hard—very hard—on both. In no time at all I had memorized not only the role that I would sing in Berlin, but the rest of the opera as well. This was long before countless CDs of the opera would be available, long before even the invention of the CD, so after a wide search at various record stores, I was able to find a long-playing disk recording of
Tannhäuser,
with the wonderful Wolfgang Windgassen in the title role.

Eight years prior to this, my esteemed colleague, the legendary Grace Bumbry, had created nothing short of an international sensation in the role of Venus in a 1961 production of
Tannhäuser
in Bayreuth. She was magnificent in the part. The rest of that year’s casting received far less attention for their strong contributions to the production. Venus, the goddess of love, the erotic seductress in
Tannhäuser,
is the polar opposite of Elisabeth, who embodies the quintessential, mythological, highest purity of German womanhood. The choice on the part of Professor Seefehlner to have me sing the part of the “pure as the driven snow” Elisabeth, rather than the temptress Venus, showed remarkable comfort in his role as intendant of his opera house.

The thought of arriving in Berlin unable to speak German never came into my mind. I would work at this and happily so. I wished to reward Professor Seefehlner’s confidence in me from the start by being able to address my colleagues at work in rehearsals in the language of the country in which I would sing.

The role of Elisabeth in
Tannhäuser
is a beautiful one, complete with one of the most glorious opening arias of any opera that I know: “Dich, teure Halle” (“You, dear treasured hall”). This happens to be the very same aria that the adjudicators in Munich had “requested” me to sing during the Bayerischer competition. It was curious indeed to think that this competition had taken place only one year and two months prior to my standing in a rehearsal room in Berlin.

Elisabeth enters the opera in the second act. In the production in Berlin, while singing this powerful music I was required to walk down a nearly forty-five-degree incline that began far upstage and ended downstage, on the flat part of the set. I rehearsed on a mock-up stage in a rehearsal room, but not on the real stage with a real set. As this was not a new production, I had not been offered an “on the stage” rehearsal. I was much too naive to know that I should have asked for one, or at least for rehearsal onstage with the piano. Thanks to the Windgassen recording, the orchestral sounds were in my head.

Fortunately for me, the singer for whom the production had been created four years earlier, the wonderful Elisabeth Grümmer, made it her business to seek me out on a rehearsal day, even as she was preparing to sing another of her signature roles that evening, the Marschallin in
Der Rosenkavalier,
by Richard Strauss. The generosity of this gesture, of this thought, of this kindness, still touches me. She wished to relay that in managing the incline, I should walk with my head erect but with my eyes fixed firmly on my feet, something no one in the audience can notice, she assured me, because they cannot see the position of your eyes from the height at which you begin the aria. She went on to say, “I do this all the time, and have never had to be concerned at all with tripping over my own feet.” She gave me an embrace and I thanked her repeatedly for this advice, and shall do forever, as it has saved and served me in many an opera production.

While I came to understand rather quickly the physical perils accompanying this particular opera production, it perhaps took a little longer to fully grasp the social, political, and even cultural daring on the part of Professor Seefehlner in casting me in the role of Elisabeth. He trusted that I could arrive on a professional operatic stage for the very first time, sing a quintessential female German operatic role, in German, in an opera of Richard Wagner, in his opera house, where even the street on the side entrance for artists is called Richard Wagner Strasse. For his faith in me as well as his innumerable kindnesses, I will be grateful forever. After all, Elisabeth is the lead female role, the character who through the very goodness of her heart and spirit wins the devotion of the hero, Tannhäuser. She wins his heart in spite of Venus and all her sensual enticements. Venus demonstrates in the extreme the adage that “Hell hath not fury of a woman scorned,” and immediately sets in motion the destruction of Tannhäuser, his fall from grace, his banishment from the presence of the woman of his heart, Elisabeth. Elisabeth and Tannhäuser end their lives seeking his pardon and the hope of their being reunited.

German twelfth-century mythology is filled to the brim with stories of saintly women and their opposites. Elisabeth, the sainted one in
Tannhäuser,
had never up to that time been performed by an African American, and it is indeed bittersweet to state today that this role, which I have sung in Berlin, the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden, London, as well as the Metropolitan Opera, has not to date been filled by another African American.

History has proven Europe to be more receptive of diversity in artistic presentation than America, and, indeed, of the artists themselves. During those long periods in American history when the stage doors, the theaters, the concert halls, the opera houses were shut firmly against its own citizens, artists of color found places for their art to call home. The stories are legion. One thinks particularly of the period after World War II when Langston Hughes, James Baldwin, and others created their own artist colony in Paris. Paul Robeson found success as a matinee idol in Europe for his great acting ability, most particularly in his portrayal of Othello, and for his deep well of a singing voice. The Soviet Union gave him respect and a stage; he would pay dearly in America for accepting these gifts to his spirit and soul. The story of the great Marian Anderson is well known.

Robert McFerrin Sr. would soon follow Miss Anderson’s 1955 debut at the Metropolitan Opera, as would Mattiwilda Dobbs.

Sissieretta Jones, the first of us all, found a home on the stage of Carnegie Hall in 1892, a scant year after it opened. They were few, but there were promoters and organizers who had the humanity and courage to insist that the performing arts had no room or patience for prejudice and its dangerous and limiting influence.

THAT OPENING NIGHT
in Berlin would prove to have more surprises in store for me than for the audience! The second act, in which Elisabeth makes her first appearance, went very well. I was grateful to have the support of my more experienced colleagues, in particular the “always in voice and ready to perform” Hans Beirer, in the leading role, and Martti Talvela, with his rich bass-baritone voice, in the role of the Landgraf. Martti and I became lifelong friends, and I will always cherish the kindness he and his entire family have shown me over the decades.

I was in my dressing room preparing the costume change for the third act, with all the staff assistants from the opera house carrying out their various duties, when who should tap on the door but the general intendant himself, Professor Seefehlner. Of course I was delighted that he had been happy with my performance in the second act, but I was not at all prepared for him to state, then and there, that he wanted me to become a member of the opera house, and that he had brought the contract with him.

I responded by reminding him that we had not yet completed the opera. I still had act three to do.

He smiled and stated that he had heard me sing the aria from the third act in New York, and that he had been in the rehearsals and was confident that this act, too, would go well. I was nonplussed.

I stumbled over my words, saying something like “Well, Herr Professor, legalese is for all intents and purposes unreadable in English; I cannot imagine what it must be like in German.”

I added that my father had always impressed on me that I must never sign my name to anything before reading it thoroughly. Another smile came from Professor Seefehlner when I suggested that perhaps the folks at Amerika Haus would be able to help me with the translation. Professor Seefehlner asked if I would perhaps prefer to have an agent assist in the matter. Would an agent be absolutely necessary? I asked. And since it was not, I declined such assistance.

Before parting, Professor Seefehlner said that he wished me to have a wonderful time in the third act. “Something tells me you are going to be all right in this profession. No agent? Hmmm.”

I SHALL ALWAYS
be grateful for Berlin, artistically, socially, and politically. For broadening my view of the world through everyday experiences and what I am sure was a subliminal absorption of rituals and practices. For me, Berlin allowed for a very personal cultural revolution.

I made a habit of being in the company of those new friends of mine who spoke only German, to train my ear to colloquialisms and to understand and incorporate phrases that are to this day peculiar to Berlin.

The singers that I joined in Berlin understood the feeling of being the new person in town. They went out of their way to invite me to sit with them in the canteen of the opera house, or to share a beer following a rehearsal (I enjoyed the camaraderie more than the beer).

Everyone had been an
Anfänger
(a beginner) at some point in their lives. Since a performance life is a very demanding one, the support that we offer one another behind the stage can mean the difference between success and the lack of it.

My Berlin education was not just musical and cultural, it was also political, as I made many visits to East Berlin with a day visa, requiring a return to West Berlin by midnight. I was always on time.

I was on time the evening when one of the East German or Russian soldiers in East Berlin demanded my passport, escorted me into a room with no lights on, left me there, and locked the door behind him as he left. Midnight passed. I was on the wrong side of the Wall. There was no lavatory, no water, no manner in which to advise anyone in West Berlin as to what was happening to me.

Finally, well past 2
A.M.
, the door was opened, my passport was handed to me, and a soldier stated in German, “you can go now.” I received no explanation and surely no apology.

I crossed the street at Checkpoint Charlie, wondering how I could explain my now very late arrival at the barrier. As I began to speak, the soldier there stopped me, gently, and asked if I had enough money to take a taxi home (rather than the subway). He stated, “You have had quite a night; get home safely.” I was grateful for this extraordinary kindness.

I allowed time to pass before crossing over into East Berlin again, but indeed, I did return. On one occasion, when our new student pals from the east accompanied those of us who had visited as far as they were allowed to go, we talked for a moment through the chain-link fence that held them on that side of the divide. I suppose I must have been a bit teary-eyed by the time we reached the crossing. One of the West Berlin soldiers looked at me and said, “Sie Konnen nichts dafur,” meaning, “you cannot do anything about this”!

I remained in Berlin for three years, always with the freedom to pursue my recital performances as well as those with orchestra all over Europe, and after a short while in the States, as well.

The opera house had more than eighty operas in its repertoire, providing me the opportunity to see performances that I could not have seen in the States. My first acquaintance with the operas of Leoš Janáček, for example, came in Berlin. It would take another decade for these operas to be presented in England and in America.

I was still a relative neophyte, however, and I was being offered roles that were not suited to my still-developing vocal apparatus and artistic acumen. After a time, it became clear to me that in order to preserve my chances of singing for the long haul, I had to gather the courage of youth and take matters into my own hands. I presented myself in the office of Professor Seefehlner one autumn morning.

I thanked him for the trust he had placed in me in bringing me to Berlin and allowing me the experience of a lifetime: to learn, to hear music of the highest level, both at the opera house and over at the Philharmonie, with Herbert von Karajan and that rather fabulous band of his, as well as being able to go across the road to the Schiller Theater and listen to German that was so beautifully spoken, it was hard to imagine that the plays of Shakespeare had not been written in that language.

The great opera director Walter Felsenstein was at the time working magic on the opera stage in East Berlin. All of this was there for me, providing an unrivaled arts education.

But then, because I had no one to do this on my behalf, I stated that I thought it wise for me, best for me, to leave the opera house for a few years and seek further vocal development, in order to return to the opera stage when in my thirties.

In my mind, it seemed a reasonable plan. Professor Seefehlner was not unkind—but he was not as taken with the idea as I, and did not hesitate to say as much.

He wished me well; I took my leave.

One of the things that gave me great comfort in this fairly major career decision was something that a very famous colleague of mine had said to me only a few months prior. I will not embarrass her by mentioning her name, but the advice is unforgettable. I had the great pleasure of working with her on a recording. In the various breaks, we had time for conversation; I treasured these moments. One day she said, “I wish to say something to you that I trust you will remember always.” Looking me straight in the eyes, out of earshot of all our other colleagues, she continued. “Remember always, you are the only person in the world who will look after your voice. I want you to promise me that this is what you are going to do. You are the only one who does not have an agenda for your voice that has nothing to do with your vocal preparedness at this time in your young life. You are the only one who will care for your voice in the way that it needs. You are the only one who can say no. No, my dear, is a complete sentence.”