Orly and other ghosts – Newnan Times-Herald

A Two-Part Series

-an excerpt from The Veterinarians Wife, A Memoir by Susie Berta, edited/abridged for this column

PART TWO

On May 30, 1988, our troupe of traveling musicians boarded a bus at our hotel in West Berlin and headed to Checkpoint Charlie the one place foreign visitors could cross through the Wall from west to east and back again. After passing through the American guard post, we were stopped at the East German guard post. Dour, well-armed East Berlin border guards scanned the underside of our bus with a mirror attached to a long pole. Then, they boarded to collect our passports and hold them until our departure.

Once through that ordeal, we were cleared to go and found ourselves in East Berlin a starkly different place from colorful, modern West Berlin. The Wall was now behind us, but it had an energy, like a constant itch that got under everyones skin and stayed there a harsh, ever-present reminder of the continual oppression and captivity of the German people living within its confines.

East Berlin was a disorienting time warp: Everything was outdated, old-fashioned; the buildings were all a dull, industrial monochrome; the cars were small, tan boxes on wheels, squared-off two-door sedans called Trabants. East Berlin was all a depressing gray scape.

But the Schauspielhaus the venue where we would sing of brotherhood, unity and joy was different, incongruous in fact. It had just been newly renovated, and its new interior of red velvet, white marble and crystal chandeliers was as plush and opulent as any royal palace in Europe.

And we were sold out.

The audience was filled with people who had a deep love of music, an even deeper sense of desperation and a hunger for freedom. They came to hear our music and our message.

They most certainly were not free to leave with us, as they were trapped behind an immovable, fortified concrete wall 90 miles long encircling the city, lined with 302 functioning watch towers, each occupied by armed guards with shooting orders. It was a wall that was two walls, separated by a ribbon of space about a 100 yards wide known as a death strip running the entire length. The death strip was furnished with zig-zag barriers that looked like thick letter XXs lined up in rows, and it was paved with raked sand or gravel, rendering footprints easy to notice. It offered no cover, and most importantly, it presented clear fields of fire for the Wall guards.

We took our places on stage, the chorus so close to the audience that we could almost reach out and shake hands. We could see the threads in the buttons on their shirts, the lines in their faces, the colors of their eyes and the tears that flowed from them as we sang to them in their language. They heard the message of unity: Freude! (Joy!) and Alle Menschen werden Brder (When All Men Are Brothers) without knowing whether they would ever be free.

After the final, rousing notes, and chill bumps rippled over our arms in exhilaration as the tiny hairs stood at attention on the backs of our sweaty necks, the audience jumped to their feet, cheering wildly and clapping with arms raised high.

They wept openly. And so did we. Not a dry eye in the house not in the audience or on the stage. The applause soon fell into that distinct, rhythmic European-unison clap. These folks were tireless in their appreciation and continued their applause while Mr. Shaw took bow after bow, finally leading the concertmaster from the stage. Even after the stage was completely vacated, the clapping continued. It echoed backstage and reverberated down the staircase, all the way through the long hallway of the basement to our dressing rooms.

After the chorus boarded the bus, the guards returned our passports at Checkpoint Charlie. Turning left onto Friedrichstrasse, we were free.

Leaving those people behind was painful. The day and the entire experience moved us into reverent, unanimous silence. Perhaps we had provided them a bit of freedom after all, a kind of liberty of the soul that only music and human compassion can manage. None of us knew then that it would be only a little over a year until the Wall would come down, and they would have their freedom after all.

We would also have no way of knowing that the very next day, the Orly airplane crash anniversary would still have the last eerie word.

On June 3, shortly after noon, we boarded a chartered Air France flight, just as the Atlanta folks had done in 1962. No one spoke aloud of the significance and the similarities around this date and time, but they were inescapable. The Orly spirits were with us, and they were restless. The differences were several, of course: We were at Charles De Gaulle Airport, not Orly Airfield; we were flying to Cardiff, not Atlanta; and in hindsight we all survived the trip.

But not without incident.

At 12:30 p.m. Cardiff time, we landed safely, and all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Then it happened.

As we taxied toward the terminal, the wing tip rolled past the building and sheared off a couple rows of bricks, clean as a whistle.

The chill we felt disembarking that plane was more than just a reaction to the cold, rainy day. We had been duly reminded. The Orly ghosts were present and stirring. We were hushed for a moment, in reverence for those who had gone before us and in gratitude for everything that had come after them.

Those who visit The Woodruff Arts Center in Atlanta today to attend a concert, play or to enjoy an art exhibition may sit outside on the circle of stone seats surrounding the Rodin sculpture, The Shade (LOmbre). Perhaps they will eat an ice cream cone, sketch, nap, rest or play and take the time to read the memorial plaques installed there.

They should know that when it was built in 1968, the building was known as the Atlanta Memorial Arts Center now known as the Woodruff Arts Center after its major benefactor.

They should know that it was built as a memorial to the people of Atlanta who died on June 3, 1962. They should know that The Shade was a memorial gift from the government and the people of France.

When visitors find the quiet circle and read the names on the plaques, it is possible to feel the presence of the benevolent ghosts who linger there. They are the people the citizens, the families, the children who in death galvanized Atlantas arts community, igniting the cultural push Atlanta needed to move forward and imbue the arts with new life.

Longtime Newnan resident Susie Berta has many creative pursuits, including music, art, writing, cooking, gardening, entertaining and decorating. She is now pursuing her passion for writing and recently published her memoir, The Veterinarians Wife. She can be reached at susie.berta@gmail.com .

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Orly and other ghosts - Newnan Times-Herald