by Noah Charney
I report the arrival of the principal shipment of ownerless Jewish cultural property in the salvage location of Neuschwantstein by special train on Saturday the 15th of this month [March 1941]. The special train, arranged for by Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, comprised 25 express baggage cars filled with the most valuable paintings, furniture, Gobelins [tapestries], works of artistic craftsmanship and ornaments. The shipment consisted chiefly of the most important portions of the collections of Rothschild, Seligmann, Bernheim-Jeune, Halphen, Kann, Weil-Picard, Wildenstein, David-Weill, and Levy-Benzion.
My Staff for Special Purposes started the confiscatory action in Paris during October 1940 on the basis of your order, my führer. With the help of the Security Service and the Secret Field Police all storage and hiding places of art possessions belonging to the fugitive Jewish emigrants were systematically ascertained. These possessions were then collected in the locations provided for by the Louvre in Paris [the Jeu de Paume Museum]. The art historians on my staff have itemized scientifically the complete art material and have photographed all works of value. Thus, after completion, I shall be able to submit to you shortly a definitive catalogue of all confiscated works with precise data on their origins, plus a scientific evaluation and description. At this time the inventory includes more than 4,000 individual objects of art of the highest artistic value [from Paris alone].
Two years later, in April 1943, the inventory had grown to include 9,455 artworks. On 16 April 1943 Rosenberg sent Hitler another telling letter, which accompanied albums of photographs of stolen art destined for the Führermuseum at Linz.
Mein Führer: in my desire to give you, my führer, some joy on your birthday, I take the liberty of presenting you with a folder containing photographs of some of the most valuable paintings which my Einsatzstab, in compliance with your order, secured from ownerless Jewish art collections in the occupied Western territories. . . . I beg of you, my führer, to give me a chance during my next audience to report to you orally on the whole extent and scope of this art seizure action. . . . I shall deliver further catalogues to you as they are completed. I shall take the liberty during the requested audience to give you, my führer, another twenty albums of pictures, with the hope that this short occupation with the beautiful things of art which are nearest to your heart will send a ray of beauty and joy into your revered life.
It would be the first of many albums created by the ERR. The official Rosenberg report, as of 15 July 1944, consisted of thirty-nine typed volumes, including 2,500 photographs, documenting a total of 21,903 looted artworks. These included:• 5,281 paintings, pastels, watercolors, and drawings
• 684 miniatures, glass, enamel, books, and manuscripts
• 583 pieces of sculpture, terracotta, medallions, and plaques
• 2,477 pieces of furniture of historic and artistic value
• 583 tapestries, carpets, and embroideries
• 5,825 articles of craftsmanship, including porcelain, bronzes, jewelry, and coins
• 1,286 works of Oriental art
• 259 works of ancient art
This inventory did not include works confiscated by Hitler and Göring, which had been appropriated from the ERR.
Frequently Göring and Hitler sought the same works of art. Although the ERR had been established in a directive by Hitler, it was unofficially commandeered by Göring and used as a personal tool. Officially Göring had to defer to Hitler, but he showed a dexterous sleight of hand, particularly in Paris, siphoning off the cream of the looted collections and sending the rest back to Berlin. Confiscated artworks were shown first to Göring, who decided what he would take and then what would be sent on to Hitler or stored.
In an order from Göring that dates 5 November 1940, the ERR would be permitted to seize all “ownerless” artworks—those belonging to Jewish families (since Jews were not considered citizens, their property was ceded to the state). Göring would personally examine the works confiscated. Before this date, these responsibilities had fallen to the German military commander in chief in France and the German embassy in Paris. With this order, Göring had wrested power from the armed forces and placed himself as a filter between the stolen art and Hitler. Perhaps in direct reaction, thirteen days later Hitler issued an order that all confiscated works were to be sent directly to Germany and placed at his disposal. This tug-of-war between Hitler and Göring over the choicest loot would continue throughout the war.
The Allied report on the ERR, formulated after the war on 15 August 1945 at one of the major stolen art depots, Neuschwanstein Castle in Bavaria, explained that the important operations of the ERR were dominated by Göring. His control of the fruits of the ERR’s labors was in formal contradiction to Hitler’s order of 18 November 1940, and for the next two years the ERR was Göring’s tool. Rosenberg, while feeling obliged to stick to Hitler’s orders, was not a strong enough political figure to say no to Göring. Göring was further aided by his control of the Luftwaffe, which could supply the ERR with much-needed security and transportation supplies that were hard to come by through over-the-table bureaucratic means.
Göring’s mobility and wiles gave him the upper hand over Hitler, who watched, stewed, and relayed communications by messenger from Berlin. In fact, Göring visited the Paris confiscated art collection point, the Jeu de Paume Museum, on twenty occasions between 1940 and 1942, each time giving only forty-eight hours’ notice of his arrival. These visits had no strategic military value. They were solely for him to select looted art for his personal collection.
Hitler played his cards close to his chest, with regard to his Linz Führermuseum and the seizure of artworks from across conquered Europe. In 1940 the extent of Hitler’s plans for art confiscation was unknown to many in the military. Even high-up officials in the army, such as Count Franz von Wolff-Metternich, the art protection deputy for the chief of military administration in occupied France, did not know of the plan or of the false façade that the Art Protection Division represented. The following is an excerpt from Wolff-Metternich’s written account:Early in August 1940 I received confidential information that a legation secretary, Freiherr von Kuensberg, had arrived in Paris, charged with a special commission to take possession of documents of the French Foreign Office in the war area. He said that he also had the task of confiscating a number of works of art, particularly such as were in the possession of Jews and other elements hostile to Germany. This was the first I had heard since taking over my duties of any attempt to misappropriate works of art, either by official orders or on that pretence. It was also the first I had heard of the confiscation of the artistic property of Jews. . . . I was convinced from the outset that von Kuensberg’s activities were illegal and that he was merely a sort of modern freeloader, all the more because, as I was assured, he was set on going about his business without the knowledge of the art protection authorities. His arrival coincided with a push by the ambassador, which obviously had for its objective the withdrawal of moveable works of art in France from the care of “Art Protection” into the power of the embassy. It was clear to me that if the care of moveable works of art was taken out of the hands of “Art Protection” and therefore of the commander in chief of the army, the door would be thrown wide open to depredation of every sort and that the protection of art would be reduced to a farce.
Count Wolff-Metternich was unaware of the existence of the Einsatzstab Rosenberg, with its mission of stealing art and bringing it to Berlin.
He was one of a small group of Germans to emerge from the smoke and mist of Nazi art looting as a hero. A professor at University of Bonn with a passion for Renaissance architecture of the Rhineland (northwestern Germany), Wolff-Metternich was an internationally renowned and respected architectural historian, an aristocrat with roots in the Prussia of Emperor Frederick Wilhelm. He rose to become head of the Kunstchutz, Germany’s cultural conservation program that had been established during the First World War as a military art protection unit. The Kunstchutz was
reestablished in 1940 as a branch of the Nazi occupational government in Belgium and France. Placing Wolff-Metternich at its helm would lend a sense of legitimacy and good intention to the Nazi occupation.
According to Jacques Jaujard, Wolff-Metternich confronted the Nazi ambassador to Paris, Otto Abetz, after the ambassador ordered the seizure of artworks from the collections of fifteen major art dealers in Paris, ostensibly for “safeguarding” in 1941. Wolff-Metternich was a staunch adherent to the Hague Convention’s protection of cultural property during war. He would write: “The protection of cultural material is an undisputed obligation which is equally binding on any European nation at war. I could imagine no better way of serving my own country than by making myself responsible for the proper observation of this principle.” While others made similar such statements, Wolff-Metternich was one of the few whose actions matched the rhetoric. Wolff-Metternich intervened above his rank in approaching the ambassador, with the result that the German military prevented the embassy from commandeering any other works of art from French citizens. It was be a brief triumph, but one that showed Wolff-Metternich to be an honorable man who thwarted Hitler’s desires, although he was acting before Hitler had made the true extent of his desires clear. For the first years of the war, Hitler did not state his plans overtly but rather played his special divisions against his army in order to steal what he wanted to steal, beneath the veneer of honorable policies enforced by the army. Wolff-Metternich’s actions made a strong impression on the helpless Jaujard, who later told Monuments officer Lieutenant James Rorimer that Wolff-Metternich had “risked his position, maybe even his life.”
Count Wolff-Metternich finally received an order from the führer, near the end of 1940, stating that the Einsatzstab was free to act by direct command of Hitler himself and was outside the jurisdiction of military administration. Thoroughly dismayed by the situation, Wolff-Metternich made one final effort, giving perhaps too much benefit of the doubt to the Nazi officials. He met with Göring in Paris in February 1941. Of this, he wrote:Although it was clear even by the end of 1940 that the booty would be carried off to Germany and that Hitler and Göring intended to share it out between themselves and some of the German public collections, I decided to report to Göring when he came to Paris in February of 1941 to inspect the spoil. I cherished some faint hope that it might be possible to say something of the objects and principles of Art Protection, and possibly to add a word or two about the scruples which might be felt over the treatment of Jewish artistic property. The risk was considerable, as I found when I was roughly cut short and dismissed.
Officially, Göring’s control of the ERR ended with a directive from Hitler, expressed in a letter from Rosenberg dated 18 June 1942. Rosenberg explained to Göring that it would no longer be possible for the ERR to make confiscated artworks available for Göring’s personal collection. Had Hitler realized what was happening? In spite of this letter, the ERR director in France, Colonel Baron Kurt von Behr, continued to supply Göring with looted art, although Göring no longer made visits to Paris to select for himself.
Von Behr was actually not a colonel—he had no official position beyond, incongruous as it may seem, being the head of the local branch of the Red Cross in occupied Paris. He insisted on being addressed as colonel, though he did not even possess a proper uniform. He decorated his Red Cross uniform with a swastika, making it look something like an SS officer’s garb. A man with a glass eye, prominent cheekbones, and the nervous habit of tucking his thumbs beneath his fisted fingers, von Behr was eventually given the position of head of the Dienststelle Westen (Western Division) of the ERR, in charge of the Nazi looting operation in France, headquartered at the Jeu de Paume Museum in Paris. The Jeu de Paume, a storehouse of French art looted by the Nazis, was also a place where Nazi officials stole the art from one another, snatching what treasures they could before a more senior officer got there. It was not until von Behr was finally removed from office on 21 April 1943 that the ERR ceased to feed Göring.
During his time as ERR puppet master, Göring selected approximately seven hundred masterpieces for his personal collection, far more than any of the world’s top museums could boast.
The many stories of Second World War art theft and recovery, stories of individual and collective heroism, have filled books by themselves. Suffice to say that Ghent had reason to fear the stripping of its cultural heritage by more than one ravenous Nazi.
Jacques Jaujard was desperate to prevent the Nazi seizure of the treasures stored at Chateau de Pau. In June 1942, he obtained a written guarantee from the Germans that the art in Chateau de Pau would not be touched. This guarantee, confirmed by the Vichy Ministry of Fine Arts, specifically cited The Lamb. A clause ensured that it could not be moved from the chateau without three signatures: those of Jaujard, the mayor of Ghent, and Count Wolff-Metternich. Jaujard had done his conscientious best to preserve the treasures under his guard. But, as with so many Nazi promises, this too proved hollow.
On 3 August 1942, only two months later, a dismayed Jaujard learned that The Lamb had been seized by Dr. Ernst Buchner, director of the Bavarian state museums, and taken to Paris. Buchner, along with several officers, had arrived in Pau by truck. He demanded to be given The Lamb. The curator on duty stalled, insisting that he receive a confirmation telegram. He sent a message to Jaujard, but it never made it through the central switchboard at Vichy. Soon after Buchner arrived, so did an official yellow telegram from the Vichy Ministry, signed by Pierre Laval, head of the Nazi-controlled Vichy government in the south of France, requesting that the seventeen crates containing The Lamb be given to Buchner. The curator had no choice.
Soon after this incident, Belgian officials asked Jaujard at the Louvre if they might visit Pau to inspect The Lamb. When they learned of what had happened, they were outraged. Jaujard registered an official complaint with the Vichy government, but that was all he could do. Count Wolff-Metternich himself expressed his indignation and was fired from his post for doing so. At the time, no one knew who had given the orders for the removal of the painting.
It turned out that Dr. Martin Konrad, a professor in Berlin who had published three works on van Eyck, had written a letter in September 1941 to Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS and the Gestapo, suggesting that The Ghent Altarpiece be moved to Berlin for “safekeeping” and “analysis.” With Himmler’s approval, Konrad had driven to Pau and then to Paris, only to be rebuffed twice by Wolff-Metternich. Himmler’s interest in the altarpiece was more mystical than art historical. He believed not only that The Ghent Altarpiece was a prime example of Germanic/Nordic and therefore Aryan art, but also that it might contain occult elements, which fascinated him and warranted study.
News of the Nazi art looting drifted to the Allies in the form of rumors and sporadic shards of evidence. It would not be until the Allied offensive, which cut a swath through Europe, that the true extent of the looting was recognized. In anticipation of the Allied invasion, and based on the evidence that had come his way, General Eisenhower issued a statement to the Allied army during the summer of 1944, regarding the protection of art treasures: “Shortly we will be fighting our way across the continent of Europe in battles designed to preserve our civilization. Inevitably, in the path of our advance will be found historical monuments and cultural centers which symbolize to the world all that we are fighting to preserve. It is the responsibility of every commander to protect and respect these symbols whenever possible.” Eisenhower’s statement was a historical first. At no other time had an army entered a war with the expressly stated intention of avoiding damage to, and proactively seeking the preservation of, cultural monuments and artworks.
Early in the war the British recognized the need for a division of officers trained in, and dedicated to, the protection of art and monuments in conflict zones. In January 1943, during a pause in the fighting near Tripoli in North Africa, Mortimer Wheeler, the director of the London Museum and a renowned archaeologist, grew concerned
about the fate of three ruined ancient cities nearby, along the coast of Libya: Sabratha, Leptis Magna, and Oea (the ancient city around which Tripoli grew). With the impending defeat of the Axis in North Africa, and the chaos of the war, Wheeler worried that the ancient monuments could become “easy meat for any dog that came along.” Wheeler noted with concern that there was no system of any sort in place for the Allies to safeguard any archives, artworks, museums, or monuments in their path.
Wheeler grabbed a friend and fellow officer, a famous art historian and archaeologist in his own right, John Ward-Perkins, and they drove by jeep to the sites of Oea and Leptis Magna. Leptis Magna, birthplace of the emperor Septimius Severus, had recently been excavated by a team of Italian archaeologists under Mussolini’s orders. This meant that the marvels of the ancient architecture, and even statuary, were unearthed but had not been secured and moved to museums. When they arrived, Wheeler and Ward-Perkins were dismayed to find a Royal Air Force team setting up a radar station in the ruins, which they thought would provide good cover against enemy bombardment.
The two archaeologists pretended to have an authority they did not possess. As Ward-Perkins would later write, “we bluffed our way through a number of fairly effective measures.” They improvised “Out of Bounds” signs, which they mounted on key monuments and beside statues, and they began to provide informal lectures to troops about their surroundings, to instill a sense of respect and appreciation for the ruins and artworks around them. These measures would become standard procedure for the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives Division that their actions would in part inspire.
In June 1943 Wheeler decided to use his impressive list of contacts to make something official out of their improvised policy. He was spurred on by his knowledge of the planned Allied invasion of Sicily, which Wheeler described as “a top secret to which I happened to be a party. . . . The archaeologist in me was filled with anxiety.” One of the richest places on earth archaeologically and artistically, Sicily’s treasures were in serious danger if something was not done in anticipation of the invasion. Wheeler suggested that a small, well-organized group, led by a qualified archaeologist, be established to promote the protection of monuments in Sicily. This message eventually reached Secretary of State for War Sir P.J. Grigg and Prime Minister Winston Churchill himself. Agreeing with the idea, they immediately sought out an archaeologist to lead the operation.
