by Susan Ronald
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Such was the state of the French art market in the summer of 1943. By the autumn, Gottfried Reimer, who had faithfully served Hans Posse, too, was unhappy with the ongoing enigma surrounding missing artworks which had begun under Posse and continued under Voss.
Fearful that someone would think he was involved, Reimer wrote to Hans Reger, the architect responsible for the Linz inventory at the Führerbau in Munich, that he’d noticed in his index of paintings for 1943 that there were several discrepancies. While some paintings hadn’t been reported as shipped to Dresden or Munich, others had also not been indicated as Party Chancellery purchases. “They were also not included in the catalogue, and yet payment had been made.… These problems are virulent,” Reimer wrote, likening the anomalies to an epidemic.
Reimer clarified how he made the discovery. Accounts payable from Voss for all art purchased reduced Linz’s financial warranties for swaps as well as blocked and unblocked reichsmarks. This financial link enabled Reimer to clearly see that paintings were missing when auditing his quarterly accounts and comparing these with the index of art acquired. When alarm bells sounded, Reimer then compared the arrival date with the dates the art had been sent. Even more paintings seemed to be missing. He then compared these with the dates of acquisition, the names of the dealers involved, and the paintings’ names and sizes. “In this way,” Reimer confirmed, “we night comptrollers could see approximately that the artworks which had already long before been paid for had not yet arrived at the Führerbau [or Dresden]. By these measures, we then similarly could differentiate between earlier and new arrivals.”21
So, paintings had gone missing. The use of the word “virulent” by Reimer meant that this was no haphazard occurrence, nor was it the fault of the transporter. Paintings approved for acquisition by Voss—many through Gurlitt—simply did not arrive. The implication was that Gurlitt had siphoned off some artworks. So, Gurlitt was stealing from Hitler.
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Even more astounding was Gurlitt’s phony accounting. The best example dates from March 27, 1944, when Tieschowitz of the Kunstschutz signed off on an invoice for customs purposes made out to Gurlitt. The invoice was for FF 4.3 million (RM 215,000), with twelve paintings itemized. It was stamped with the official stamp of the Military Governor’s Office and was given the export license number 13678.
However, there is a second invoice of the same date, with the same export number, detailing six of the same twelve paintings on the first invoice, and providing two new paintings to the list. The prices of the existing six paintings have also been inflated. Instead of the official stamp on this second invoice, the wording is only typewritten.
On the second unstamped invoice to the Sonderauftrag Linz, the paintings by the Dutch Golden Age painters Jan Weenix, his cousin Melchior d’Hondecoeter, and Cornelius van Poelenburgh as well as the modernist Dutch painter Dolf Breetvelt are missing. Two new paintings are provided in their places, one by Stevens for RM 40,000 and another by Gottlieb for RM 34,000.* The most probable explanation is that only six of the original twelve paintings were sent to Linz, along with the two additional substitutions, which were extremely inflated in value. The missing paintings were all small Dutch masters, able to be easily disguised in personal baggage.
The wording on the authorization to export between France and Germany specifically stated that it was only valid for the itemized contents and for the agreed value.22 The pencil annotations on the first invoice appear to be Hermsen’s, since he sent along a cover letter referring to these and stating that he had rewritten the invoice as “those paintings indicated in pencil are not in France, the others having already been sent to Germany.”
Later, Hermsen wrote to Gurlitt that Jaujard’s team of experts had inspected the paintings but that it was a “lunatic proposition” to remove paintings just so the Kunstschutz could resell these a short while later.23 So, the paintings were not “already sent to Germany” after all. This revised statement by Hermsen implies that it was either Kurt von Behr, the former head of the ERR, Hermann Bunjes, or Göring’s personal and “special” agent Bruno Lohse who was responsible for the swap. Both Bunjes and Lohse were members of the Luftwaffe and took orders from the reichsmarschall. Yet Hermsen’s remark refers only to two of the paintings destined for Gurlitt and Linz—not the six that were ultimately removed.
Given the date in March 1944, it is unlikely that Behr was involved. By then he was engrossed in the unsavory activities of the M-Aktion division of the ERR, recycling euphemistically named “ownerless” property from occupied France back to bombed-out Germans. Similarly, it is hardly likely that the destination was Linz or Hitler personally, since as early as Voss’s appointment, in March 1943, the ERR was a highly compromised agency that had worked with Göring in pillaging over seven hundred works of art for Carinhall without payment.24
The export file is tantalizingly incomplete. Gurlitt replies on April 5 about the reworked invoice, breathlessly saying, “Please find out who bought the painting. There is suddenly a great deal of interest in this, because we had it.” Was Reimer querying its whereabouts? Gurlitt concludes his note to Hermsen with the elusive remark “I am sending to Holland RM 100,000 to the address indicated” without stating specifically what the money was for or identifying the address.25 The cryptic nature of the financial dealings between the two men becomes positively mysterious when considering that the envelope had no postage stamp or postmark, leading to the probability that it had been sent in the diplomatic pouch, as Gurlitt was elsewhere at the time.
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Voss’s other assistant, Robert Oertel, was also alarmed. For reasons he could not fathom, Gurlitt’s foreign-exchange payments were given top priority.26 It was Voss himself who informed Oertel that Gurlitt’s and the Dorotheum’s requests for payments must be immediately honored. Indeed, Gurlitt often acted as the agent for the Dorotheum.27
Both assistants worried that the manner in which Linz acquired its art had fundamentally changed. Dating from Voss’s appointment, Gurlitt achieved a position of preeminence in the French art market. Haberstock had been sidelined. Theo Hermsen worked exclusively for and with Gurlitt; together, they expanded their network of potential buyers. Both acted in concert with Hans Herbst of the Dorotheum in Vienna, with all three parties selling art variously through Gurlitt to the Wallraf-Richartz-Museum in Cologne and the Kunsthalle in Hamburg.
Gurlitt’s rise was specifically due to his execution of commissions on behalf of Voss. These were, in turn, based on a myth that the Gurlitt-Hermsen partnership was extremely effective in obtaining these export permits legally from France.28 In many cases (as for the Viau auction) the requisite export-licenses from France were crucial in order for the foreign exchange authorizations to clear. Yet much of their success in obtaining official papers was nothing more than puffery.
In reality, Jaujard’s office was thoroughly fed up with Gurlitt and Hermsen. The minutes of a meeting on February 11, 1944, state categorically that “at several occasions in the past, this exporter has not observed the formalities demanded in export matters.” The French representative Mr. Montremy was at pains to remind Dr. Korth (who was Haberstock’s secretary) that incidents like these represented an outright flouting of the July 9, 1943, accord between the French and Germans. In the spirit of that agreement, Gurlitt’s “oversights” had been omitted from the report. “Nonetheless,” the minutes continue, “the license for the two Houdon sculptures will be granted to Mr. Hermsen on the condition that from this point forward he agrees to adhere to the letter of the agreement as demanded by the French authorities.”29
Dr. Korth was described in all the French documents as Haberstock’s secretary, yet in these same meeting minutes he also appeared to have the final veto over any change in the new laws governing fine art, at least according to the French. Consequently, Haberstock’s secretary was, on the face of it, in a position of extreme power over Gurlitt and his transactions. Nothing could be farther fr
om the truth.
In fact, between November 14, 1942, and August 18, 1944, the Gurlitt-Hermsen partnership made 116 export applications for an estimated value of FF 453,939,700.* Thirty-three of the export applications were refused in whole or in part. The artworks included approximately 526 paintings, fifty-five drawings and pastels, twenty-six tapestries, and nine sculptures. More often than not the artworks were exported without approval.30 This represents two hundred paintings more than Hitler’s dealer Maria Dietrich,† who bought some 320 paintings for the führer. As a partial statistic, it makes Gurlitt the leading official buyer of French art by far.31
Chances are that the official export applications represented a mere fraction of the artworks Gurlitt plundered from France. Whether it was one-tenth, one-hundredth, or even one-thousandth of the total was dependent solely on other factors emerging on the larger canvas of the French occupation. As ever, the chameleon Gurlitt adapted to the circumstances in which he operated.
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From March 1943, Voss had ultimate control over all imports that were deemed part of the führer’s booty.32 Like all administrators in the other occupied territories, Korth may have received direct orders from Bormann,‡ but the specific knowledge and art market which they were plundering came from Voss and his agents. Of course, Korth reported back directly to Haberstock on the state of the French market, too. Although the French incessantly complained about exporters ignoring the legal exportation safeguards agreed between occupier and occupied—and more often than not about Hermsen and Gurlitt—the partnership remained the largest single applicant for the export of French artworks to Germany by a huge margin.33
In some cases, like the export application of six paintings by German and Dutch artists as well as a fine Gobelins tapestry, the French Department of Fine Arts lamented that “in view of the fact that these are all made exclusively by foreign artists, it seems [according to prior agreements] that the Musées Nationaux are unable to voice an objection to granting the license.”34 Only rarely was an export license granted without it being phrased in the negative.
From 1943, when seeking approval for artworks to be exported, the exporter had to place the proposed items with their transport company under the auspices of French Customs officials. From that moment, the French inspectors of the Musées Nationaux had only three weeks to decide whether or not the artworks were suitable for export. The Gurlitt and Hermsen file was spiced with constant remarks that they were “undermining the customs officials” or “avoiding inspections” or “acting in bad faith” or “paintings had already been exported” or they were “nonresponsive to letters, visits and telephone calls.”35
Gurlitt also reveled in the system he and Hermsen had set up, which protected his cherished invisibility. From 1943, Gurlitt often acted as agent for some better-known art plunderers, such as Gustav Rochlitz, Albert Speer, and Joseph Goebbels; however, in many instances, his name does not appear on the manifests.36 The export applications were more often than not made by Theo Hermsen for the account of Gurlitt. As the outcome of the war became clearer and the pace of the looting operation expanded exponentially, a sort of “shorthand” between Hermsen and Gurlitt became the norm. Hermsen would request the export for the account of the Dorotheum or Mr. Schmidt or Dr. Voss or Linz or Goepel, often omitting the name of Gurlitt completely. Yet whenever there was a problem associated with a given permit, Gurlitt personally intervened.
The pace of their operations accelerated wildly from January 1, 1944. Prior to D-day, according to the French dossiers, thirty-four separate export licenses for Dresden were made on behalf of Linz, representing approximately three hundred paintings.* Yet, according to the German archives, there are only twenty-nine invoices and notifications, with a number of the paintings missing. Still, this is only a small part of the discrepancies between the two archives.
Between D-day, on June 6, and August 18—the last date of an application by Gurlitt—an additional forty-four export license applications were made. Paris was liberated on August 25, placing Gurlitt in the beleaguered city just a week before its liberation. Goepel was clearly Gurlitt’s subordinate in several of these transactions, often acting as Gurlitt’s personal courier back to Germany.37
The most compelling evidence of Gurlitt’s complete transformation from a “savior” of art into a man who stole the lives of the rightful owners remains that he did not stay in Paris to surrender and meet the Allied Monuments Men when they arrived. Even if he hadn’t known about them firsthand—which seems unlikely—Goepel would have told him about the special Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives soldiers comprising the top American and British museum curators and scholars as they plowed through northern France and Belgium. Then again, if he had remained in Paris, surely the Musées Nationaux and Rose Valland would have disabused the Monuments Men of Gurlitt’s purported innocence.
Gurlitt’s reasons for rushing back home were abundantly clear. There was more loot left in Germany to stash away, and he had no intention of returning anything.
25
QUICK, THE ALLIES ARE COMING!
Rich preys make true men thieves.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Venus and Adonis
D-day, June 6, 1944. While over a million men comprising American, British, Canadian, Free French, Polish, and other Allied troops fought their ways into France from the hard-won bridgeheads in Normandy, art and other assets had already begun their journeys to secret caches throughout the Third Reich and beyond. The Nazi hierarchy outwardly projected the illusion of victory, while quietly preparing to send their personal treasures to safe havens. Goebbels, Ribbentrop, and Himmler availed themselves of the services of Buchholz’s “bookshop” in Lisbon, even providing him with a secretary as a trustworthy gatekeeper.1 Göring arranged to pack up his art and furniture from Carinhall to ship southward to Berchtesgaden.
Evacuation plans for all the art acquired by Hitler and Linz, as the two were inseparable, were put in place from March 1943. Unofficially, and secretly, Linz officials had made arrangements through the existing city museum director Justus Schmidt to recommend a suitable mine in the Austrian countryside in which to hide at least six thousand artworks. Since Schmidt was personally appointed by Hitler and had been working closely with Wolfgang Gurlitt for many years, he could hardly fail to recommend the Altaussee salt mine, equidistant from Salzburg, Linz, and Hitler’s retreat at Berchtesgaden. It was also less than a five-minute drive from Wolfgang’s chalet. The beauty of the salt mine was that it had been in operation for centuries and its deep horizons* afforded a uniquely perfect atmosphere, with a balanced acidity in the air, a constant temperature of seven degrees Celsius (forty-five degrees Fahrenheit), and a steady humidity of 63 percent.2
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Finally, in the same month, the first response from America for the protection of monuments and art was mooted to George Stout, the head of conservation at Harvard’s Fogg Museum. Paul Sachs, Stout’s boss and a family heir to the bank that bore his name after Goldman’s, had been saddled with the responsibility of selecting the Americans who would lead the country’s conservation corps.3 While the American contingent is most famous today, it was far from the first group to try saving Europe’s cultural heritage. European countries had long been aware of the dangers. In the Netherlands, the government had drafted “An International Convention for the Protection of Historic Buildings and Works of Art in Time of War” in January 1939.
In 1941, when the vast scale of the thievery was first recognized, the British passed legislation to prevent art seized in the Netherlands and Belgium from being sold in Britain or the United States. A year later, the British warned the world that looted art was being threaded through neutrals like Switzerland, Portugal, and Spain, targeting the Americas (both North and South) and financing the Nazi war machine with the proceeds.
When the Allies began to make inroads into the territories previously held by the Third Reich, the scale of the art looting astounded many. On January 5, 1943,
sixteen governments of the United Nations and the Free French Committee signed a declaration called the “Inter-Allied Declaration against Acts of Dispossession Committed in Territories under Enemy Occupational Control.” All signatories agreed that they would do their “utmost to defeat the methods of dispossession” practiced by the Nazis and Axis Powers against countries and peoples whom they had “so wantonly assaulted and despoiled.”4
Yet none of this mattered to Gurlitt in August 1944. Some of his greatest work was yet to come.
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By April that year, Gurlitt had unbridled control. He wrote his own authorization passes between France, Holland, and Germany, notifying Oertel or Reimer of the specifics he required. One of these states simply that Dr. Hildebrand Gurlitt works “under the instructions” of the Sonderauftrag Linz; that he is “always importing these artworks to Dresden and other cities”; and most of all, that it is imperative that Dr. Gurlitt “has priority on the Reichsbahn.”5 The authorization was stamped without changing a word.
Still, Reimer and Oertel had become increasingly uneasy. Amounts invoiced and transfer requests often reached into the millions of francs every three or four days. It was difficult to keep track of what had been acquired, what had not, the destination of the artworks (Linz, Dresden, Munich), and, indeed, whether they were for other museums around Germany. Goepel seemed to be on a whirligig, spinning between Amsterdam, Paris, Brussels, and Dresden, delivering hundreds of paintings in the spring of 1944.
The salt mine at Altaussee had been rented by the Third Reich from January 1943. Meticulous records show how much the rental, full salaries, and maintenance of the entire mine cost per quarter. Even the workforces required to adapt the salt mine to its new role in life—the felling of trees for fresh lumber from the pine forests above ground, transportation costs, the building of racks to house the artworks, medical costs for miners, the employment of local art historians—form an entire day-by-day journal of the financial history behind just one of Hitler’s hideaways.6
