Hitler's Art Thief

by Susan Ronald

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  Goebbels, undeniably, had a grand plan. All piecemeal art exhibitions, though well received, fell short of that final national push against degeneracy. Hitler’s established architect, Paul Troost, was commissioned to build the Führerbau museum in Munich, dedicated to the best approved art. Goebbels’s ego dictated that he must make his own grand contribution: a national exhibition of modern art. It would be called the Degenerate Art Exhibition—the Entartete Kunst Austellung.

  The artworks to adorn this scornful stage set would be confiscated from German museums. Organized against the backdrop of growing anxiety about Hitler’s brutality and refusal to acknowledge the existing boundaries between Germany, Poland, the Baltic states, and the Soviet Union—with Germans commonly demonstrating publicly in full war regalia—the huge effort that went into this exhibition seemed incongruous, even slightly mad, to many.10

  Goebbels and Hetsch consulted with the Moravian-born critic Robert Scholz for suitable candidates to help put together the exhibition, selecting the mediocre artist Adolf Ziegler as the new president of the RKK. Ziegler was instructed on June 30, 1937, to begin preparations for the Verfallskunst seit 1910 (Decadent Art Since 1910) exhibition. He led a five-man commission comprising the also-ran painter Wolfgang Willrich; Hitler’s photographer and amateur art dealer Heinrich Hoffmann; his ruthless art dealer Karl Haberstock; Scholz, who also headed the Moritzburg Museum, in Halle (Saxony); and the antiquities dealer Max Täuber. Hitler decreed that none of the participants should engage in dealing art, as this might appear inappropriate.11

  While the brief was to design an exhibition to contrast the “decadent” with the “approved,” even Goebbels balked at Ziegler’s and Willrich’s zeal. A curator “of confidence” was appointed for the “weeding-out” process following the initial seizures to keep Ziegler and Willrich from overreaching themselves.12 Eberhard Hanfstaengl, of the Nationalgalerie, refused to take part, thereby confirming his ignominious future. Instead, Hanfstaengl appointed Paul Ortwin Rave, his own curator, to the commission.

  Ziegler, known to his many adversaries as the “Master of the Pubic Hair” for his particular detail of nudes, made his first swoop at Hannover on July 5 with his commissioners. The following day, Essen fell victim to their blitzkrieg. The day after, it was the turn of Hanfstaengl’s contemporary-art museum, the Kronprinzenpalais.13 At each museum, Willrich, wild-eyed, scribbled madly in his notorious notebook of death, detailing which artworks were to be purged. Ziegler and Willrich—the perfect representation of the mediocre—relished their opportunity to openly revile and ridicule the modern greats.

  Oddly, for a “Hitler-approved” operation, their confiscation of artworks was a blatant effrontery to the law. There were no agreements foisted on the plundered museums. Artworks were simply taken, with no promise of return, no insurance for the “loan,” and no word about their ultimate fate. The cost to the Nationalgalerie alone was 141 artworks: sixty-four oils, four sculptures, and seventy-three drawings. Included among these were the paintings confiscated a year earlier at the Nierendorf Gallery by the Gestapo, wrongly described as “belonging to the Nationalgalerie.” Clearly ownership had become a matter of opinion. Still, it would be only the first of thousands of such purges. Human lives had already been stolen. Millions more would follow.

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  The most compelling eyewitness account of these artistic ethnic cleansings was given by Paul Ortwin Rave, the commission curator. Art was no longer a mere matter of taste. It had been reduced to a false concept of racial impurity that needed eradicating in a manner that left no room for doubt.

  The Entartete Kunst exhibition was purposely staged at an inappropriate venue, in the arcades of the Munich Hofgarten. It included six hundred expropriated artworks and opened on July 19, 1937, to an unprecedented number of visitors—free of charge—heralding its ultimate success. Rave described how the rooms were narrow and covered with trelliswork structures overlaid with burlap.

  “The paintings are attached to the partitions while the inscriptions are written on the burlap,” Rave wrote. Windows immediately above the partitions, coupled with the narrowness of the rooms, made it awkward to view the displays. The main propaganda aim was served by the numerous inscriptions, like “Insolent mockery of the Divine under Centrist rule.” Crucially, “the purchase price was indicated, a large red label was stuck to the artworks with a message ‘Paid for by the taxes of the German working people.’”14

  It was purposefully shambolic, to feed the viewers’ revulsion, anger, and even nausea. As expected, Hitler, Göring, and Goebbels were elated. Gebt mir vier Jahre Zeit may have no longer been the title of the Entartete Kunst exhibition, but it remained the fulfillment of Hitler’s prophecy. Between 1938 and 1941, it toured Berlin, Leipzig, Düsseldorf, Salzburg, Hamburg, Stettin (now Szczecin), Weimar, Vienna, Frankfurt, Chemnitz, Waldenburg (now Walbrzych, Silesia), and Halle (in Saxony) and was viewed by more than two million people.15

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  Timing is everything in life, but was 1937 the time to implement the Four-Year Plan for art alongside Göring’s Four-Year Plan for Germany? The reichsmark had again become unstable as a result of Germany’s thirst for foreign exchange. Schacht, once omniscient in money matters, had taken to importing foreign goods, then blocking payments to the exporter. He would then attempt to negotiate barter agreements of German-manufactured goods as payment. Though pleasing to Hitler, it was nothing short of financial criminality.16 Understandably, the more countries that became victims of this blocked-funds lark of Schacht’s, the less confidence foreign nations had in the reichsmark.

  Schacht’s change of tack was ultimately brought about by Germany’s race laws and the country’s rearmament. On March 9, 1937, Hitler declared that an air force, which he called the Luftwaffe, would be built; and a week later, he announced conscription, the formation of twelve army corps with thirty-six divisions, and full laws governing military service. Article 173 of the Versailles Treaty was in shreds.17

  Reportedly Hitler was so happy with Schacht (for a change) that on his birthday he sent his economics minister a magnificently framed painting. Schacht, ever the arrogant know-it-all, returned it to Hitler, thanking him for his “thoughtful choice” but advising that the painting was a fake. He kept the frame.18

  Unsurprisingly, Schacht hated the new economic system. On November 29, at the Academy of Laws, he gave a heartfelt speech about the merits of capitalism and entrepreneurship. This flew in the face of what the Nazi economists believed: that these were inventions and “instruments of” the international Jewish conspiracy. Of course, Schacht knew he had the backing of Germany’s heavy industry before he dipped his toe into the scalding water, since the industrialists understood the need for hard currency to acquire superior materials from overseas.

  Hitler literally banked on Schacht’s previous good name. By the time the four art dealers were appointed to their tasks, Schacht had resigned as economics minister, although he remained the Reichsbank president—for a little while. He had finally learned that Hitler was unreliable and untruthful.19

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  At the same time, Gurlitt, Buchholz, Möller, and Böhmer compiled a list of “internationally exploitable” artworks with the tacit approval of the RBK. A series of contracts with the dealers had already been agreed. The combined knowledge and contacts of these four men meant that nothing of worth could evade their grasp. Their real work, however, began immediately after the Munich exhibition.

  By August, artists’ works which were not represented in the exhibition were herded into warehouses. Any visual arts that “distorted” the human form, used unnatural colors, or were “unfinished,” to use Hitler’s terminology, were confiscated. If the artists were racially or politically unacceptable, their works were seized, irrespective of any Aryan credentials. Works by artists of other nationalities who fought against Germany in the war of 1914–18 were also plundered.

  When Franz Hofmann, chairman of the confi
scation committee, declared in March 1938 that Germany’s museums needed to be purified, it was “old news.” The confiscated art had been “safeguarded” already, to use the euphemism of the day. Any art that remained on display also became subject to the “Führer’s prerogative.”20 For many years, scholars believed that approximately seventeen thousand works by more than a thousand artists had fallen victim to the four horsemen of this artistic apocalypse. Yet according to the Freie Universität of Berlin’s database, set up by the Ferdinand Möller Foundation after the war, the number has been revised upward, to approximately twenty-one thousand.21 The vast majority are graphic pieces, with approximately five thousand paintings and sculptures listed.

  The Mannheimer Kunsthalle collection was utterly devastated by the seizure of some 584 artworks, owing to its high concentration of modern art. Düsseldorf’s Staatliche Kunstsammlungen had nine hundred artworks plundered. The Frankfurter Städelgalerie lost 496, Breslauer Schlesische Museum 560, the Stuttgarter Galerie 283, the Chemnitzer Öffentliche Sammlung 366, and its Kunsthütte (art cottage) 275. Dresden’s Staatsgalerie lost 150 works of art, its Stadtsmuseum 381, and its Kupferstichkabinett 365 prints and drawings. Hamburg’s Kunsthalle had some 983 artworks sequestered, its Kunstgewebemuseum 269. In all, there were 101 public collections that were stripped of modern art. The scale of the looting was so vast that for its first year of operation a large grain warehouse at Berlin’s Köpenikerstrasse was coopted for storage.22

  Simultaneously, Hetsch began to draw up the inventory. Ziegler, acting on behalf of the Schlesische Museum, in Breslau, traded an expropriated Edvard Munch for a Caspar David Friedrich, expecting a sizable commission for the transaction.23 Hermann Göring paid a visit to the warehouse and selected thirteen paintings for his own “use.” There were four by van Gogh and Munch, three by Marc, and one each by Cézanne and Signac. He then instructed the dealer Sepp Angerer to sell or trade these for him abroad.24 While Göring might have justified this theft as market testing, he never paid for these paintings—or any paintings he took, from anyone. Ever.

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  In the midst of this sudden burst of activity, Cornelius Gurlitt died on March 25, 1938, aged eighty-eight. Two weeks earlier, on March 12, Germany had annexed Austria in what has become known to history as the Anschluss. Whether Cornelius thought this was as good a thing as he would have in 1914 is doubtful. He’d been stripped of all honors he held dear, as well as his membership in all architects’ associations, some of which he’d led for most of his professional life. If Hildebrand hadn’t intervened locally through the powerful Herr Kirchbach, chances are Cornelius would have had to wear the yellow Star of David in the streets.

  Letters of condolence poured in to the home at Kaitzer Strasse, yet there is little more to tell. As is always the case, arrangements needed to be made and people notified. Given Hildebrand’s prolonged absences from home for his work and Wilibald’s distance from Dresden, the task of taking care of Marie most likely fell to Helene, now the mother of two children. Young Cornelius was only five at the time, and daughter Benita* only three.25

  With Cornelius dead and Wilibald remote, the two touchstones for Hildebrand’s moral compass had fallen silent. If Hildebrand and his brother corresponded after their father’s death, these letters have not been made public. Hildebrand had successfully reasoned away his plundering activities as a means to save his family from public humiliation. None were made to wear the yellow Star of David. None of them were ever branded, as many others had been in their positions.

  Nonetheless, without Cornelius as a constant reminder of Hildebrand’s moral obligations to himself, his family, and the world of art, he appeared to have lost sight of the damage he was doing to his own reputation if there was ever to be a post-Nazi world. Given his earlier mental collapses and his innate high regard for his own capabilities, it would have been entirely in keeping to assume that he’d developed a strategy whereby he could claim that all he wanted to do was save the art he so loved.

  19

  TRADECRAFT

  No Emperor has the power to dictate to the heart.

  —FRIEDRICH SCHILLER

  The Anschluss revealed a genuine treasure trove. Vienna, the long-reviled city of Hitler’s youth, paid dearly for having branded him an untalented vagrant. Its museums were raped of their riches. Some artworks were stored for redistribution in provincial towns, some taken back to Germany to warehouse as future barter currency. Others were plundered for the private collections of the Nazi hierarchy.

  Jewish private collections like those of the Rothschild and Ephrussi families were attacked within twenty-four hours of the Anschluss. Images of Jewish women made to scrub the streets on their hands and knees, spat at and kicked by their Aryan overlords, were filmed for newsreels back home. Many were the wives and daughters of Vienna’s elite. Robbed of their fortunes, they were then robbed of their dignity.

  As the Third Reich’s successes progressed, so did the fury of the art seizures in Germany and the Ostmark, as Austria was then called. Hitler installed the most deadly of his art historians and SS men, Kajetan Mühlmann, to carry out his orders as gauleiter of Vienna. Surprisingly, when Hitler was told of the scale of the confiscations from museums and private collections, he became temporarily queasy, fearing accusations of criminality against his government.

  Proof of the führer’s fears lay in the deluge of laws streaming from his pen that year. The Reichstag no longer had any power, and the opposition had emigrated, been killed, or been dealt with by other means. April 26 marked the enactment of the Ordinance for the Registration of Jewish Property valued in excess of RM 5,000. The May 31 law regarding “the confiscation of products of degenerate art” tidied things up quite neatly in the lucrative art world. Then, in the aftermath of Kristallnacht, on November 12 the First Ordinance on the Exclusion of Jews from German Economic Life was passed and Goebbels prohibited Jews from attending cultural events of any sort. On November 20 and 21, the Ordinance for the Attachment of the Property of the People’s and State’s Enemies and the “atonement tax” (Sühneleistung) completed the Jewish exclusion from all interaction in German life.1

  Hitler also made sure the laws stipulated that all museum employees were employees of the state, assuring their silence. From now on “confiscation” meant legal expropriation. The Commission for the Seizure and Disposal of Degenerate Art (Kommission zur Verwertung beschlagnahmter Werke entarteter Kunst) was in charge of the disposal of all the confiscated art and worked closely with Gurlitt and the others. Their main contact was none other than Rolf Hetsch.2 The deal struck with Gurlitt, Buchholz, Möller, and Böhmer was based on a license to determine which artworks were valuable enough to sell abroad for foreign exchange, and which ones represented a positive valuation within Germany. With such rich pickings, the four official dealers were soon overwhelmed.

  Others, including Karl Haberstock, Karl Meder, Max Täuber, and Gurlitt’s cousin Wolfgang, were drafted to help in the disposal battle campaign.3 Yet this was no free-for-all. Six gangs were created by Hetsch to “conscientiously” determine the artworks’ value on a sliding scale. The four official dealers remained responsible for the hoard at Köpenikerstrasse, and were hardly minded to share the profits of their endeavors except on a “needs must” basis.

  The dealers knew they enjoyed an elevated status above the sixty or so other dealers engaged in similarly approved activities. They were equally aware that one false move could topple them from their pedestals. As with all men Hitler promoted to lofty heights, these four would become each other’s best friends on the surface and worst enemies beneath. Trust was a commodity in very short supply in the Third Reich.

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  Soon the grain warehouse held 1,290 paintings, 160 sculptures, and 7,350 watercolors, drawings, and art prints, as well as 3,360 pages and 230 maps. The average large city museum displays four thousand artworks, making the Köpenikerstrasse warehouse one of the largest “museums” in Germany.4 The art dealer
s began to ply their trade immediately, contacting their associates abroad. The backs of the artworks were stripped of all inscriptions in order to keep their questionable provenance secret.

  Still, they couldn’t shift the art quickly enough. More room was required. They also needed to be mindful not to flood the market, as prices would fall. So, in August 1938, the most valuable 780 paintings and sculptures and 3,500 watercolors, drawings, and graphic works were transferred to Schloss Niederschönhausen, just outside Berlin.5

  One of the first museum directors to go on a shopping spree at the Schloss was Georg Schmidt of the Basel Kunstmuseum. The four official dealers were allowed to buy for their own accounts and clients, so long as it was in foreign currency. Gurlitt acquired a Max Beckmann portrait for the princely sum of one Swiss franc. Soon after, he bought several paintings by Munch.6 Buchholz was less mean in his valuations: he spent $160 on the Kirchner Strassenszene and sold it on through Valentin to the Museum of Modern Art in New York.7 Valentin worked tirelessly to keep his partner at the front of the wolf pack, whipping up enthusiasm with private collectors, galleries, and museums in the United States. Previously, Buchholz had written to the Propagandaministerium that he had “a request from a major American institution for paintings by Kokoschka.… Over and above this inquiry, I would also be interested in an inventory of the entire stock.”8

  Möller pulled his own strings at the top, writing to Ribbentrop’s wife at the beginning of November 1938 regarding the proposed forthcoming sale of degenerate art in Lucerne through the Fischer Gallery: “I should nonetheless like to point out how unfavorable an impression would arise if this auction were allowed to go ahead.… From the point of view of foreign policy, this auction could be felt as an insult to those states to which the artists in question belong.” In a predictable attempt at psychological manipulation, Möller saved the crux of his message for last: “If it should prove impossible to avoid disposing of these things, the German dealers could still be entrusted with the task of selling … to foreign collectors on their own initiative, without causing too much of a sensation, and of handing over the whole of the foreign currency that they receive.”9