Hitler's Art Thief

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  For Alexander Hoyt, Gunther Hoyt

  and

  my husband, Doug

  … who would have thought …

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I could have never written this book without the inspired support of my dedicatees. My editor, Charles Spicer, and the entire St. Martin’s team have been incredible in allowing me to create the book I was compelled to write. To my assistant and researcher, Mara Weiner-Macario, thank you for your tireless efforts in pulling down thousands of documents—a page at a time—from Fold3.com and analyzing all those transcripts in Spanish.

  The generosity of a number of people also made this book possible. In alphabetical order, they are Ambassador Ido Aharoni, Julie Goodman Aharoni, Richard Aronowitz-Mercer, Alexander Balerdi, Stephanie Barron, Aurore Blaise, Rolf von Bleichert, Amanda Borschel-Dan, Greg Bradsher, Evelien Campfens, Virginia Cardwell-Moore, Michael Carlisle, Gerald Dütsch, Harry Ettlinger, Maureen Finkelstein, Helen Fry, Christian Fuhrmeister, Patricia Gillet, Dominic Gray, Johannes Hauslauer, Stefan Holzinger, Mieke Hopp, Polly Hutchison, Dotti Irving, Stephan Klingen, Ronald S. Lauder, Monique Leblois-Pechon, Matthias Leniert, Johanne Lisewski, Anton Löffelmeier, Chris Marinello, August Matteis, Richard G. Mitchell, Elisabeth Nowak-Thaller, Ralf Peters, Dirk Petrat, Jonathan Petropoulos, Hubert Portz, Julian Radcliffe, Ruth Redmond-Cooper, Julia Rickmeyer, Peter Robinson, Lena Schwaudecker, Jonathan Searle, Robin and Suzie Sheppard, Delphie Stockwell, Markus Stoetzel, Michael Stoetzel, Katrin Stoll, Karen Taieb, David Toren, Mel Urbach, Anne Webber, and Lois White.

  I am especially grateful to lawyers Chris Marinello, Markus Stoetzel, and Mel Urbach for sharing their knowledge of the fraught area of restitution with me. Jonathan Petropoulos has also been unstinting in sharing two unpublished articles for this book and helping me to understand the tortuous relationship he had with that plausible liar who worked at times with Gurlitt, Bruno Lohse. To Stephan Holzinger, my gratitude for sharing his knowledge base at such a busy time, and letting Cornelius know that I was writing the type of book he had hoped would one day be published (although perhaps he would be less happy with the result). For all of those who wished to remain entirely anonymous, I thank you, too. As always, the staff at all the following libraries and archives have been invaluable: the London Library, the National Archives (Kew, London), Archives Nationales de France, the National Archives (College Park, MD), the Getty Research Library (Los Angeles, CA), the New York Historical Society, the Dresden City Archives, and the Bundesarchiv at Koblenz and Berlin, the National Art Library at the V&A (London), King’s College Cambridge, the Bodleian Library Oxford, the British Library, and the Courtauld Institute of Art. Photographs from Germany are included courtesy of the photographic archives of bpk, dpa, SLUB-Dresden, and Stadtarchiv Düsseldorf. In England, the Press Association and Vantage News Agency kindly provided photographs of Hildebrand and Cornelius. The Getty in Los Angeles provided photos of two of Gurlitt’s looted works of art. All artworks have been separately licensed (providing royalties to the artists and heirs) through DACS in the UK.

  For those of you who helped me on my 26,000-mile-plus trek in the past year, I can hardly express my gratitude for sustenance, free beds, and your support. Marjorie Bliss, Maureen Burgess, Laurette Dieujuste, Sue Froud, James and Philippa Lewis, Rick and Sue Parker, Charlotte and Steve Sass, Barbi and Larry Weinberg, and Jan and Phil Zakowski, you truly helped to make this book possible. Most importantly, my husband, Doug, deserves his extra due: not only did he put up with a wife who read Mein Kampf cover to cover and had recurring nightmares, but he also accompanied me on my travels, understood when I was silent and reflective, and helped me work through conundrums—all while completing his own book on youth and war propaganda. You’re my hero.

  For you, the reader, I hope that you have learned a great deal about life in Germany during the First World War and afterward; and in doing so, that you have come to understand the pressures that made three generations of Gurlitts what they were. I am pleased that Cornelius finally broke the mold and can only hope that his wishes will be respected. I implore Germany and the Bern Kunstmuseum to return the art to the heirs as he wished—urgently.

  I hope you enjoy reading and learning about Hildebrand Gurlitt, the Nazis, and a billion dollars in looted art. Any errors are, of course, my own.

  —SUSAN RONALD

  Oxford

  December 2014

  ON NAMES AND ACRONYMS

  Obviously, times change. So do names. For those who lived through what we now call World War I, it was known as the Great War. There was no World War II at the time, and so I refer to that first war as the Great War in the book. Similarly, a number of countries changed their names in the period covered. I refer to each of those countries by the name that was current at the time of the events described, save for Great Britain, which I retain throughout. Great Britain, officially called the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland today, comprised the countries of Ireland, Wales, Scotland, and England until the Irish Free State was established, in August 1922. In December 1937, the Irish Free State became Ireland, or Eire in Gaelic. Ireland, where appropriate, is referred to separately. Other examples include the empire of Austria-Hungary, so known until it was carved up into Austria, Hungary, Czechoslovakia (now of course changed again to the Czech Republic and Slovakia), Slovenia, and Croatia; the German Empire under Kaiser Wilhelm II; and Palestine (as a British protectorate), which is now Israel, the West Bank, and Gaza. As these countries adopt their new official names, the text changes to reflect the new national identity. Similarly, as republics or governments change within countries, such as the Weimar Republic in Germany between the world wars, I refer to these governments individually. I feel this will help the reader understand the dislocation felt by all those populations involved.

  There are a number of foreign words in this book, mostly German and French. Words for Nazi organizations like Reichskulturkammer (the Reich Chamber of Culture) are abbreviated after the first use into the more acceptable English form—RKK in this example. Some words—from the German, in particular—do not have an exact English translation, so I’ve taken the most commonly used terminology. Where appropriate, I translate the name of the organization into English. A list of these words is provided in the glossary at the end of the book. The final administrative point is that all translations from French are my own, as I am fluent in French (having lived in France for nearly six years). For German, which I can read but speak far less well than French, I have worked in conjunction with a professional mother-tongue German translator through Trans-Solutions in Oxfordshire who also verified my translations into English for accuracy.

  PROLOGUE

  The Gurlitt saga began for me in 1998 on one of those heavily laden, bone-chilling winter days that curse Europe from late October to April. Back then, I was an investment banker specializing almost exclusively in the restora
tion of historic buildings and landscapes and their conversion to alternative use. To my knowledge, I was the only such independent beast in the licensed “banking community,” which made me as rare as a golden unicorn to some (or a proverbial dragon to others) and gave me a very minor “rock star” status. I recognized that I was able to see and know things and places most people could never glimpse. That said, I’d grown curmudgeonly and badly needed a change. I had no inkling that this would become one of the most significant days in my working life.

  It was just another day trip to Zurich, like so many dozens of other day trips I’d made in previous years. Having a Swiss institutional shareholder in my company, Zurich, Geneva, and Lausanne were familiar stomping grounds in the pursuit of bona fide investors. Snow threatened, and before the storm broke I was anxious to meet my prospective investor with his bank manager and swiftly take back proof of his ability to invest millions in the project I was currently working on.

  My destination was one of the richest city blocks in the world—Bahnhofstrasse, home to the world’s premier banks and, more important, their moneyed clients from across the globe. Swiss bank-secrecy laws attracted the superrich and ultranotorious alike—especially back then.1 Today, things are marginally different.

  * * *

  The meeting with the prospective investor and his personal bank manager went well, and as a final step for the day, it was necessary to go to the bank’s vault to verify the share certificates, certificates of deposit, jewels, and art. I was a thorough kicker of tires.

  For those readers who have never seen one, there is something quite incredible about a Swiss bank vault. This enormous vault room held row after row of tightly-packed, numbered sliding storage walls, each with dozens of fabulous artworks hanging on them and hidden from prying eyes when they were closed. As we walked down the wide aisle in the center with the closed walls to either side of us, I thought how each in its own way was a Pandora’s box. In some cases, the vault is akin to a small, hushed city. In others, it is like wading through the treasure-houses of yore. The larger ones do not resemble what we see in films or television. Nor do they look like an Aladdin’s cave, even though they are just as rich in wealth and laden with threads of golden untold stories to rival those Scheherazade wove.

  This particular vault was of the small-hushed-city ilk. The only sound to be heard was the bank manager’s heels clicking against the stone floor—but even this were muted by the soundproofing. I couldn’t help thinking it was a great place for a murder at closing time—stuff the body between two rows of sliding walls and it would only be detected by the rank smell of decomposition days, if not weeks, later … unless, of course, some hapless art owner wanted to visit his treasured trove where the body was hidden.

  As we made our way, I noticed that a sliding wall was slightly ajar. I saw the fringes of what I believed was a nineteenth-century landscape painting and the letters “RLITT” labeled beneath the frame. Rlitt? Gurlitt? Could that be a painting by Louis Gurlitt, the nineteenth-century landscape painter? I wondered aloud without realizing it. The bank manager swiveled round suddenly and glowered at me, pushing the wall shut. “No. That’s the twentieth-century Nazi art dealer,” he huffed.

  I was never a good poker player. I was stunned and hid it poorly. The manager immediately realized his blunder and tried to recover himself by blustering. I shouldn’t have been peeking at private property. It was against Swiss law. I was being brought into the vault at the behest of a valued client (meaning the investor) and represented a highly respected institution. I apologized, but both of us knew that the damage was done. Nonetheless, we continued in a distinctly tense atmosphere to view the assets of the potential investor.

  Despite returning to professional dignity, I knew instinctively that there was more to this story. I’d never heard of a twentieth-century Nazi art dealer whose name ended in “RLITT.” Surely it couldn’t be the landscape painter Louis Gurlitt. If my memory was right, he hadn’t lived into the twentieth century, but I couldn’t be sure. My art-history studies were part of a life I’d been forced to give up by a demonic father* who believed that all artists were “freaks”—or at least that’s what he told me when he burned my art portfolio on my conditional acceptance for a bachelor of fine arts program. Yet that was the past—another country.

  As we left the vault, I thought back to other such visits. A day in a Geneva vault virtually smacked me between the eyes—and how that potential investor gloated about how he had saved all the art and artifacts from Egyptian Jews who feared they would be killed if Rommel’s Afrika Korps overran Egypt. Stupidly, I asked why the art was still there, given that Rommel failed. He simply smiled, sphinxlike, in reply. So, this is what an art looter looked like.…

  * * *

  At lunch, the bank manager overplayed his hand once again, trying to ply me with wine. I declined. I could see from his expression that he thought I was a “recovering alcoholic,” so why disabuse him? I was used to bankers underestimating me. So, he continued on his set course regardless, apologizing for his outburst in the vault, pouring himself drink after drink after drink. He should never have exploded like that at me, he said. After all, it wasn’t my fault that the sliding wall wasn’t closed properly. Obviously the prospective investor chewed him out royally. The bank manager’s groveling became so overwhelming that I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. It’s not often a Swiss bank manager makes such a faux pas.

  So, I was mischievous and played on his sudden change of heart helped along by his nervous drinking. I popped the searching question, mustering my best innocent voice, and asked if there was a twentieth-century art dealer called Gurlitt. Was there ever! the bank manager exclaimed. He wasn’t just any art dealer—he was Hitler’s art dealer. Hildebrand Gurlitt was his name.

  * * *

  Within the year, as if to hog-tie me forever to the Gurlitt story, I unexpectedly inherited two looted artworks from the Nazi era and immediately handed them over to the Art Loss Register in London to locate the rightful owners to return them. As the paintings were from Hungary, I volunteered to go there twice on missions for the British Council and met with the Hungarian culture minister, who informed me that there was no looted art in Hungary. I agreed. All the looted art from Hungary had been taken elsewhere. He was not amused.

  For the past fourteen years, I have searched independently from the Art Loss Register for the heirs to the paintings I inherited—without success so far. I’ve been in touch with Yad Vashem, the Jerusalem Holocaust museum, for help, too. Meanwhile, I inherited a third looted Hungarian painting. I prided myself on my research capabilities, but I was at a loss for how to find an heir when even the best experts failed.

  This is my connection with the incredible and—despite huge media coverage—untold story of an illustrious family, the times in which they lived, and the loss of many a moral compass. Cornelius Gurlitt knew about the book before his death and was pleased that someone was taking the time to write the whole story about why things were the way they were. Context is everything in history, and Hildebrand Gurlitt was born at a most critical time in Germany’s national development.

  To better understand the rise of Nazism in this cradle of European culture and Gurlitt’s evolving role as “Hitler’s art dealer,” I dig back into the origins of both. This book examines the lives of three generations of Gurlitts, focusing on Hildebrand—a well-educated, upper-middle-class boy from an illustrious family set within his period. German Expressionism and the avant-garde, which the Gurlitts loved, was more than mere art. Collecting it meant dedication to a new cultural ideal that often became a “spiritual narcotic,” a commitment to a new Sachlichkeit—or fresh objectivity—often carrying with it “political expressionism,” to use Hannah Arendt’s words. This engendered a new Weltanschauung, or worldview, enabling the Gurlitts and others to cope with Germany’s ever-changing international status. It is the golden thread running through the book and is behind the question How could such a man bec
ome a heartless art thief who stole lives?

  * * *

  I want to impress on the reader that it is a gross misapprehension to believe that looted art is somehow a lesser crime of the Nazi era. Attached to each artwork is at least one human tragedy and death. Art is intended to unite people of disparate backgrounds in a combined cultural heritage that transcends national boundaries. It takes many forms, as literature, music, fine art, film, and more. It connects our souls. The wholesale theft of art from museums, private individuals, libraries, and archives was highly calculated and well organized by the criminal regime of the Third Reich.

  Many Jews, Christians, atheists, and political opponents lost their lives because of their collections. Those who somehow survived never recovered the bulk of their possessions—be they artworks, real estate, stocks, jewels, cash, or gold—giving rise to new laws, restitution departments at auction houses, and an entire insurance industry. Some artworks now reside as ill-gotten gains in museums across the world—perhaps in a museum in your hometown or where you live. Much lingers beneath Bahnhofstrasse in Zurich and elsewhere in Switzerland. Those who salvaged some of their heirlooms or riches remained deeply scarred, afraid, and guilty that they’d somehow survived. Few returned to Germany, some returned to France. They often passed on this guilt and shame to their children. The looting of art deprived these families of a crucial link to their personal histories: memories that remain dear beyond the value of the paintings—often mental pictures of the last time the dispossessed saw their loved ones alive.

  Hildebrand Gurlitt was one significant cog in this criminal machinery of state. He brings the scale of the criminality down to a level that most of us can comprehend. As Hitler’s art thief, he stole the lives of his victims, as well as the lives of his wife and children. His crime, like the crimes of thousands of others, went unpunished, as it was judged best that the order givers alone should be tried for crimes against humanity. No one was put on trial for art theft in Germany. Most Nazi-approved museum directors continued as before. Gurlitt’s boundless zeal and secret hoard of ill-gotten artworks—which were kept without remorse—are his true crimes.