From Ashes to Rainbow: The Work of Alice Lok Cahana and Her Descendants (Part Two)

by Ori Z Soltes

The actual gate at Auschwitz

The very materials and techniques that Cahana used are metaphors for the reality they convey. The surfaces of her works are burned and scratched with blackened patterns, scarred and stained with blood-red pigments. Blurred fragments of texts are swallowed by images that are grafted, buried, partially eaten away, echoing the fate of human beings swallowed up in the camps. One sees this in No Return, from 1979–81 (this is Thomas Wolfe’s literary masterpiece You Can’t Go Home Again squeezed through a glass darkly!), with its torn central motif—suggesting a face in profile, with a gaping mouth—and flesh and blood colors against a devouring background of black darkness.

Arbeit Macht Frei: Concert in Auschwitz

A chronological sibling, Arbeit Macht Frei: Concert in Auschwitz (1979–81) is a diptych in which an array of prison-bar-like vertical stripes punctuated by a trio of black, blurry squares are contained by an arch that links the two parts of the image together. The phrase “Arbeit macht frei” (Work makes one free), which was inscribed at the entrance to that infernal camp, graces that arch, but in fragments, with the words almost blotted out. Across the upper part of the image, with its torn and singed holes, more vertical lines compete with a series of horizontals, among which one can discern some musical notes. This thus becomes a distorted musical stave, alluding to a particular aspect of Nazi perversity: forcing some inmates to play music to accompany the march of other inmates to the gas chambers.

The crucible of destruction is repeatedly symbolized by the arched form, whether open, like the gateway to Auschwitz, or closed, like the doorway to the ovens to which the nameless were consigned. In No Exit (ca. 1980), the arched oven-door form is trebled (no redemptive spiritual symbolism of Father-Son-Holy-Spirit is intended here, for redemption was not in evidence when those who prayed to a triune God gassed and cremated those who prayed to God the Father alone), and the thick blackness of the doors is an impenetrable black-hole-like darkness, sucking nearly all light into itself, and marked by

No Exit

pronounced passages of blood-red hue. It is punctuated, nonetheless, by shards of light and an infinity of numbers and letters insistently referencing those who passed through those arched openings.

Cahana was an abstractionist who survived hell. She was also a student of Jewish mysticism, aware of the Kabbalistic inquiry into how to understand the transmutation of matter into spirit—the aspiration to ascend to union with the singular God—embedded in an array of often dark, inscrutable (like her painting Kabbalah, from 1982) questions pertaining to the relationship between God and ourselves. Primary among them is how an intangible, invisible, and singular God created a universe that is tangible, visible, and endlessly multifarious. The Holocaust was the ultimate act of de-creation, in its dehumanization of its victims by their reduction to numbers and letters. Those rounded up were stamped on their arms with numbers and letters. Names, which typically connect humans to the essence of what we are, were eliminated, replaced by those narrativeless numbers and letters.

One of the noticeable features in many of Cahana’s works is the presence of numbers and letters—those from the tattooed arms of the dead, those from the calendar of counting the endless days which had lost their coherent cycle in the concentration camp, particularly when, as Alice observed, “every day . . . was an eternity!” The tortured structure of Days and Nights (1979) offers numbers arrayed as if on a calendar—as if one could count the time left till the end, with no foreknowledge of when the end might eventually arrive and what sort of end it might be—and puns on the transmutation of human names into numbers (the word “name” repeats in the lower left corner of the canvas): numbers with more meaning for the victimizers than cipher-humans in the meaningless technology of their destruction. There is irony in the rising and falling line across the middle of the canvas: it suggests the graph of some economic analysis, with its ups and downs, but going from right to left, as in Hebrew, the diagonals lead to the letter shin, suggesting a reference to Shaddai, God’s name as the ultimate source of power and protection.

In turning the numbers and letters imprinted on inmates’ arms into art and thus memorializing them, Cahana reverses the Hitlerian process of de-creation and dehumanization. In No Names (1985), railroad tracks plunge into a dark night overwhelmed not with stars but with letters and numbers (that railroad track is at the same time an ironic Jacob’s ladder connecting heaven and earth): the insistent, Kabbalistic repetitions will into memory those whom the Nazis sought to consign to oblivion.

No Names

Hovering toward the central upper part of the painting is a yellow-brown, bulbous cloud and above it the numbers 1 9 3 9. These mark the year when World War II began, sandwiched between the first six years of Hitler’s expanding, increasingly systematic prewar campaign of terror against the Jews and the following six years of an expanding, increasingly efficient Holocaust campaign embedded within the war, as German armies overran much of Europe and its diverse Jewish populations. (The end of that process is more difficult to discern on Cahana’s canvas: the numbers 1 9 4 5 hover less clearly, just to the right of 1 9 3 9.) This painting was acquired by the Vatican Museums’ Collection of Modern Religious Art, and when Pope Benedict XVI asked Cahana about the large, miasmic smudge in its middle, she responded, “Every night I wake up with the smell of Auschwitz in my nostrils. How do you paint an odor?”

There are, of course, many further works that demand our attention, but I will reference only one more in this brief discussion. Raoul Wallenberg—Schutz Pass (1981) offers a monumental polyptych, whose vertical sweep is dominated by the Swedish diplomat’s name, written along the left side of the top panel. An abstract dialogue between brightness and darkness rises from the conceptual ashes—photographic images of ordinary people sent to extraordinary deaths—toward the spiritual rainbow of the hero’s own photographic image. He serves as a commanding symbol of how one person’s efforts can and did make a difference, in contrast to the active and passive collaboration in the destruction detailed in the lower horizontal sweep of visuals.

Wallenberg’s face is the ultimate metaphor of transmutation: the would-be deaths that became, instead, lives saved by his hands, by way of the Schutzpasse, (letters of protection), that he issued—including Cahana’s own father; the rescuer who vanishes; the hero who fights against the silence, which then turns against him when people fail to ask, to press, to demand: Where? Why? And fail to remember well enough not to repeat the silences—from Cambodia to Uganda, by the time this mixed-media work was made (the list of countries has grown in the decades since). The imperative to speak against the silences, even if only in yearning and hope, impels Cahana’s artistic efforts.

What in a longer essay becomes their own substantial discussions must be limited here to a lengthy epilogue. The move to Houston that yielded an extended outburst of artistic creativity also yielded a family: Alice and Moshe began to have children: Ronnie, Michael, and Rina. They were engulfing Hitler’s annihilationist intentions in a brilliant, future-looking sea of reeds. One: that the last of their three children, Rina, who was born with Down syndrome and would therefore have been among the first consigned to his slaughter, was fiercely loved and nurtured by the family into adulthood. Two: both Ronnie and Michael became prominent rabbis, and Ronnie a noteworthy poet. His poetry often focuses on his parents, his wife, and his children—and achieved an even more unique voice after he suffered a brain-stem stroke in 2011 that left him initially completely paralyzed, and able to communicate only by moving his eyelids.

The Cahana family

Three: that all of their own children became artists in varied media or rabbis (or both). Kitra, the oldest—who initially organized the group of friends who painstakingly wrote down her father’s poetry communicated through eyelid movements, letter by letter—has already, in her thirties, achieved extensive recognition as a photographer and filmmaker. Four: that Kitra’s work reflects a strong influence from her grandmother in its unceasing social messaging—resonating, in part, as she has commented, from the sense of pressure to do something with her life and her art when, turning fifteen, she thought about where Alice had been at that age. Kitra’s daughter, born in late 2024, is named for Alice’s sister, Edith. Rainbows continue to emerge from the ashes of Alice’s teen-aged experience from one generation to generation.

(Author’s note: Much of this essay is extracted from the essay in Soltes’ exhibition catalogue/book, Survival and Intimations of Immortality: the Work of Alice Lok Cahana, Ronnie Cahana, and Kitra Cahana, published by the Fritz Ascher Society, NYC, in 2020. The exhibition is currently on view at the Oregon Jewish Museum and Center for Holocaust Studies)

From Ashes to Rainbow: The Work of Alice Lok Cahana and Her Descendants (Part One)

by Ori Z Soltes

The Cahana Family

Alice Lok Cahana (1929-2017) responded to the human quest for immortality by achieving it in a multi-layered manner, defeating Hitler in three ways: she survived his murderous efforts—three different Concentration and Death Camps through which she was moved as a teen-ager during Hungary’s embrace of Nazism in the last year of the war; she evolved as a visual artist who transmuted the ash greys and mud browns of her experience into the subtle but distinct colors of the rainbow, reshaping his destructive enterprise into profound creativity; and she overcame his exterminationist ambitions for the Jews by producing children who in turn produced grandchildren, many of whom themselves became artists in diverse media—and, as of this writing, one great-grandchild—so that Alice’s own corner of the Jewish world has continued not merely to survive but to flourish.

Cahana was born and raised in Sárvár and in the midst of her transit through those camps she swore to herself that if she survived she would one day become an artist who would effect just such a transformation of her experience on the canvas. It took her more than three decades to fulfill that promise to herself. By the late 1970s she had begun to produce a series of large, dynamic images—and words—that, as a totality, she called From Ashes to the Rainbow: A Tribute to Raoul Wallenberg. Her memoir, Empty Windows, offers a word-painting, in prose and poetry, of how her beloved sister, Edith (aged seventeen), her younger brothers, her mother, and she (aged fifteen)—and her grandfather, uncles, aunts, and cousins—were deported from Sárvár to Auschwitz in 1944, and how all the others, separated from Alice, disappeared soon after their arrival.

She writes about finding Edith and their managing, together, to survive an ineffably hellish reality—a tribute to the unique capacity of humans to shape a systematic art and science of torture and torment for other humans. She describes how Edith became very ill and how, after liberation, she was taken to a hospital—though Alice never saw her again or even found out what had happened to her: she could find no record of either her death or her survival.

Lamentation

Cahana’s Lamentation (ca 1980)—its fragment of Hebrew text surrounded by flowers and overrun by barbed wire; its yellow at once recalling the six-pointed stars attached to Jewish garments by Nazi decree and connoting sunlight, filling the entire window-like frame of the image—is biblical in conceptual size. The parchment-like text, flanked by black smudges—pillars of smoke, from both the tabernacle in the wilderness and the crematoria in a different wilderness—can be seen as a Jeremiah-like cry for Alice’s loss of Edith, for the loss of virtually her entire family, and for the loss of all those for whom no family survived who could lament their eradication.

Cahana left unwritten in Empty Windows the epilogue to all of that loss: the events of her life after the war: her reunion with her father, who had been away at work in Budapest when the deportation order came in Sárvár—a reunion that proved difficult given the divergence of their experiences. Her subsequent time recovering in Sweden and living in Budapest and then in Israel. Her meeting her future husband in Israel: a rabbi, Moshe Cahana, who made her feel beautiful after such intense ugliness. Their subsequent five years together in Sweden—he serving as a rabbi for a congregation composed largely of Holocaust survivors, and she as an educator. Their ultimate settling in the United States.

With their move to Houston, in 1959, Alice took up the formal study of art, and was influenced in particular by the transcendental, light-suffused color field paintings of Morris Louis. From her studies at the University of Houston and at Rice University, where color field painting was dominant, and from her interest in the work not only of Louis but of Helen Frankenthaler and Kenneth Noland—who were also color field painters and were collected by the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston—she evolved a style based on pure abstraction, light, and pigment.

Developing as a colorist, she also emerged as a social observer in the tradition of Goya when she found herself on suddenly new ground, rather than expected familiar territory, more than a generation after the Holocaust. In 1978 she decided to visit Sárvár—where no memorial to its slaughtered Jews stood; where no recollection of her wiped-out, thousand-year-old community, or even of her communally active mother, was evinced by individuals with whom she spoke (including those residing in what had been her family home). The need for visualized memory, the artistic imperative to wrestle kosmos (order) out of chaos, and Alice’s self-imposed obligation to convey a transcendent positiveness in the context of overwhelming negative power. These elements combined to engender a new group of works: the abstractions and collages of dark, but often also pastel, coloration that, continuing through 1985, became From Ashes to the Rainbow. These works rise to meet the hope embodied by Wallenberg, the Swedish diplomat responsible for the rescue of twenty thousand Hungarian Jews, which efforts cost him his own freedom and probably his life.

Wallenberg SchutzPass

As Barbara Rose noted (in her essay in the catalogue of Cahana’s 1986 From Ashes to the Rainbow... exhibit at the Skirball Museum in Lose Angeles), Cahana’s works bear comparison with Robert Rauschenberg’s 1958-60 illustrations of Dante’s Inferno. Unlike artists in earlier centuries whose illustrations of Dante were most often created only by power of imagination, Rauschenberg had access to literal images of the damned, in newspaper photographs. For all his incorporation of scraps of these images in his Inferno illustrations, however, his drawings are still second-hand, whereas Cahana embedded her canvases with memories of her personal experience in hell.

End of Part One

(Author's note: much of this essay is extracted from the essay in Soltes’ exhibition catalogue/book, Survival and Intimations of Immortality: the Work of Alice Lok Cahana, Ronnie Cahana, and Kitra Cahana, published by the Fritz Ascher Society, NYC, in 2020. The exhibition is currently on view at the Oregon Jewish Museum and Center for Holocaust Studies) 

Review: Pauline Baer de Pérignon: The Vanished Collection

by Ori Z. Soltes 

Every time one might be inclined to suppose that the last page has been turned on the vast narrative of the Holocaust—and certainly of that chapter that deals with the Nazi plunder of cultural property—another book, and not merely another page, appears that adds another nuance or issue. 

One of the truisms of the multi-aspected genocide engineered by the Nazis is its complexity and its internal paradoxes, which magnified the characteristic of paradox that is endemic to humanity. The Nazis offered inherent contradictions between the mud-and-excrement chaos of the pre-death world that they prepared for their victims and both the carefully ordered manner in which that world operated and the spit-polish cleanliness that obsessed Hitler and his inner circle who shaped and governed it. 

One paradox resonates from the manner in which the population designated for extermination was defined—from whom property and particularly cultural artifacts were confiscated directly (for they had ceased to possess the right to own anything, according to the laws articulated in and beyond Nuremberg in 1935) or indirectly (by forced sales of art and other possessions at a fraction of their value). The same Alfred Rosenberg who would be put in charge of defining racial categories and their features (eyes, hair, nose, lips, intellect, emotion, and the like) in order to decided who would suffer which particular fate, when, and why, was subsequently charged with organizing an effective and far-reaching system of art plunder. Among the racial determinants for Jews was the clear conclusion that having a single Jewish grandparent was sufficient for one’s polluted bloodline to yield a one-way ticket to Auschwitz. 

Yet apparently—paradoxically—the Fuehrer might make exceptions if it served his needs: so the most successful art plunderer on Hitler’s behalf, Hildebrandt Gurlitt, in spite of his paternal grandmother’s having been Jewish, flourished. Hitler also gave a survival pass to his Jewish barber (who never took the opportunities he must have had to slit his master’s throat). And on the other hand, while the most concerted Nazi efforts directed toward cultural appropriation were aimed at Jews and Slavic states, survivors or their offspring and descendants (some of whom become claimants of cultural property) are sometimes not Jewish.

Pauline Baer de Perignon grew up in France as a Catholic. The engrossing book authored by this journalist, film-script writer and writing instructor began by happenstance: a passing comment from a cousin engaged in the art world, whom she hadn’t seen in years, followed by a piece of paper on which he had written down the names of a handful of works by great masters that had once belonged to her great-grandfather, and which—her cousin rather casually noted—had probably been stolen from him.

The narrative that unfolds interweaves two main issues. One is the story itself that begins to take shape: yet another case of a French collector—in this case, Jules Strauss was particularly well-known for his generous contributions to the Louvre of exquisite and suitable frames for a good number of its masterpieces—dispossessed of his cultural property; and how easily and conveniently that datum and its accompanying details were obliterated from the communal memory of the French art and culture world in the aftermath of World War II and the Holocaust.

The other is the process through which, inch by inch, the author scaled the double territory of trying to understand what had happened to her great-grandfather’s collections—how to begin and deepen and broaden her research—and came to a deeper understanding of her own family identity and heritage.

Jules Strauss, we learn, while he directed pointed if quantitatively modest efforts to building his own art collection, devoted unique amounts of energy to providing the Louvre with frames more consistent with the paintings hung within them than had previously been the case: he innovated both the very idea of taking the framing of a painting seriously and directing serious efforts to providing the right one for a given work, subtly enhancing its appearance. Yet (to repeat) Strauss also possessed some interesting and valuable works of art—such as a small drawing by Tiepolo that ended up in the collections of the Louvre and an intriguing painting by Largillière, a Portrait of a Lady as Pomona, which ended up in the Dresden Gemaeldegalerie Alte Meister (Old Masters Picture Gallery) in former East Germany.

These works emerge in Baer de Pérignon’s narrative as a focus within what also evolves: a realization that they had not made the journey from Jules Strauss’s walls to the storage facilities of these museums along a legitimate path, but as part of the often obscure and unstraightforward process of cultural-artifact depradations in which the Nazis were so particularly skilled. Among the ironic—or galling—aspects of the Jules Strauss story was that his home, 60 Avenue Foch, also confiscated by the regime, was requisitioned by senior members of the SS specialized in black market operations and the seizure of Jewish property.

Pauline Baer de Pérignon’s own journey includes a number of interesting turns and twists as she also evolves, to become a knowledgeable and comfortable denizen of the archives in which she would eventually uncover the documentary proof that these works did not leave her great-grandfather’s possession simply because—as the director of the Dresden museum would cynically ask her during the first round of her attempts to regain that piece of her family patrimony—“perhaps Herr Strauss was happy to have sold his painting for a decent price?”

Differently—but equally important in stature and intangibility to her quest to reclaim these tangible connections to Jules and her family past—is her arrival to a point of wondering how, exactly, and why, precisely, her father and two of his first cousins converted, in 1940, to Catholicism. A whole other aspect of the world of Nazi confiscations emerged for her, regarding layered and interwoven aspects of her family—and her own—religious identity.

This last extended detail is ultimately shaped around the peculiar and willful amnesia of which, she comes to recognize, her family has been suffering during the two generations since the Holocaust had come, uprooted and destroyed so much, and gone, like a devastating typhoon. That amnesia set in, more specifically, after Jules’ widow, Pauline de Baer Pérignon’s great-grandmother, had filed several claims with her government—the French government—regarding the works of art that that government and its museum bureaucracy refused to acknowledge as having come into their possession along the illegitimate path of Nazi spoliation.

The amnesia that set in for the family, which involves its own heritage, both cultural and spiritual, and the amnesia of the French government and museum world, are part of the larger amnesia from which those who struggle in the trenches of art restitution are trying to help the Western world recover, as the decades since the Holocaust spread out and we continue, as a species, to repeat the sorts of actions that bought such grief to so many in such a range of different ways over 75 years ago. That is why this book—aside from its flowing style, compelling storyline and intriguing twists and turns—adds such an important chapter to the Holocaust narrative and its culture-centered subset. Its ultimate theme is really about restituting memory—that most significant of characteristics that makes humans human. 

So I Have Been Thinking…

[Note: The following text is a reaction/thought piece to a recent query. Since this blog page is about thinking, these are things to think about. The raising of questions can be as important as having absolute answers.]

by Ori Z. Soltes

A recent question prompts me to think: When Dina Gottliebova-Babbitt found herself in Auschwitz as a 17-year old, she probably did not expect her or her mother to survive (her father and fiance did not). But fortunately not only did she have significant talent as an artist but in an odd turn of fate, Josef Mengele, the notorious primary physician-in-residence at the camp, noted for his horrific experiments on his limitless supply of patients, had an interest in her art. Not because he was an art devotee, mind you—although many of the Nazi brass were, infamously enjoying Beethoven by night while beating prisoners to death by day, or ingathering Rembrandts and declaiming Schiller’s poetry in between consigning victims to the gas chambers. No, Mengele’s interest was more practical: he felt that the black and white photographic possibilities available to him could not capture the emotion sliding across the faces of his patients, to say nothing of their skin tones, and he hoped that Dina’s portraits of these victims (particularly Roma victims) would serve that purpose. Apparently they did—well enough, in any case, for her to use her skill as a bargaining chip not only for her own survival but that of her mother.

By now Dina Gottliebova’s story is known to some: that she came to the United States, ending up in California where she also married a fellow artist, Art Babbitt, and both of them had successful careers as cartoonists. It was only many decades after the war, when the issue not only of the Holocaust but of Nazi-plundered art surfaced in a world that had been in a deep slumber regarding such issues, that Gottliebova Babbitt began to wonder if those portraits had survived. It turns out that seven of them had. She sustained a long legal fight with the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum authorities regarding ownership of the works—at one point the director of the museum opined that the real owner was Mengele, since he commissioned and, one might say, paid for them. That Director was fired shortly thereafter, but in the end little satisfaction for Gottliebova Babbitt was achieved by the time of her death from cancer in 2009.

The Museum refused restitution, although they required her authorizing signature every time one of these images was used. They also offered her financial compensation, which she refused, but instead asked that the money the museum paid for the right to exhibit the works be donated to organizations that assist the Roma. To me the issue has always seemed almost uniquely soluble among the myriad issues that form part of the ongoing saga of Nazi-plundered art and its restitution or non-restitution. Since there are multiple works in this case—seven, to repeat—it seems to me that they could be shared between the artist and the museum, with perfect copies of those in the hands of the one while the originals are in the hands of the other (the technology of this is a no-brainer in this day and age)—cycling them every, say, three or five years, so that both sides are always in possession of three (or four) and over a complete cycle each side has had possession of all of them.

I propose this, since the most substantial ground upon which the Museum stands in refusing restitution is that they require the images as part of the exhibition-cum-educational program in which they are always engaged. So in fact they would always have some, just not all of them in their possession. (And do they exhibit all seven at once anyway? No paper conservator would advise that). Were there only one of these paintings I admit that the solution would be more difficult—although one could even propose a similar back-and-forth between original and copy over a prescribed period of time with a single work at issue. In any case, the question of the artist’s rights as opposed to an educational institution’s rights remains problematic—and it does not become simpler once the artist is gone and the question moves on toward the artist’s survivors. And then the issue of how many survivors and how many works of art muddies things further. I don’t claim to have a one-size-fits-all answer to the question—appropriately enough, since time is continuing to demonstrate that the number of Holocaust “stories”—whether regarding art of other matters—is endless.

But the question pushes my thoughts in two further, somewhat related directions. One is this: Recently a colleague from Iraq—who manages to continue her work, with little pay under unimaginably difficult conditions, of trying to document and protect all of the antiquities that are at risk in that country the tearing to shreds of which was facilitated by our own country—asked one of my American colleagues: “why don’t you return our material?” Having asserted that “you” should not include him, but the American government, he also clarified what she meant by “our material.” As some may know, our troops were empowered to remove, among other things, many objects relevant to the long-gone Jewish community from Baghdad. These are mostly manuscript-type material, documents, mostly only one or two centuries old, although the Jewish community in Iraq traces itself back to the Judaean exile following the Babylonian destruction of the First Jerusalem Temple in 586 BCE.

I myself got to see this material. From the description leading to what I saw in our National Archives I expected thousand-year-old Torah scrolls, at least, and was sort of disappointed, frankly, that the collection was so much tamer than I had hoped. On the other hand, the work being done by the archives’ conservationists was extraordinary—spectacular, really—and there is something enormously intriguing even about report cards from schools of a few generations ago, with their names, grades, comments and photos of the students; it brings to life a community that has since vanished in a unique manner.

So what was my Iraqi colleague’s beef? That these documents are part of state-owned material, kept and carefully preserved until the Americans swept in and carried them off. The American claim—including certain important members of the American Jewish community—is that this material records a community that, mostly gone, is and will further be forgotten if we don’t preserve its memory by adequately conserving, protecting and presumably at some point displaying the documents (here’s a question: when? where?). The implication is, of course, that none of these activities was happening or can happen in Iraq.

My colleague disagrees: the documents were being cared for by the state, by dedicated state employees like her, because they recognize the importance of Jewish communities in the history of Iraq, and how important it is to preserve that part of their history—and not just that part represented by substantial ancient monuments. So we find ourselves in the crossfire of a question parallel (not identical, for various reasons) to that raised by Gottliebova Babbitt’s paintings and the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum. Who owns this odd collection of “Judaica” since there is no longer a Jewish community in Iraq? That question cannot be disentangled from the question of who is best equipped to preserve and display these items.

We have, of course, loaded the dice by tearing apart that country, but the amazing thing is that there continue to be people like this colleague who continue to do their preservationist jobs. So if we refuse to return the material to the Iraqis, are we merely being the British Museum redux vis-à-vis the Parthenon Marbles: asserting with the superiority of a colonial power that we can take care of their heritage better than the natives can? Could we return some of it and mount a serious exhibit on the Jewish community of part of it—or an exhibit of all of it that travels for a few years before the whole thing goes back to a Baghdad where we even help assure that adequate facilities are there to receive it? I think once more of a parallel: we Americans exhibited art from Germany after the war, and when some members of the government and art community wanted us to keep it, other, wiser voices prevailed, arguing that if we did that, we would be no better than the German art-plunderers—or, as the Cold War took shape, the Soviet Red Army Trophy Squad thieves.

We always come back to the first question: what are we-as humans, as Americans, as whatever subsets of either of those categories we want to throw into the rhetorical hopper? And that leads me to a second offshoot of the Gottliebova-Babbitt question that is also very current, albeit having nothing to do with either the Holocaust or art plunder, but having everything to do with the role of art as an educational instrument—which was the main basis for the Museum’s argument against the artist’s claim for restitution. I recently led a study tour to Russia, and my group and I visited a number of smaller towns not far from Moscow—part of what is known as the “Golden Ring” for their importance with regard to churches, cathedrals, monasteries and kremlins—including Suzdal, Vladimir, Yaroslavl and a few others. I was struck in these places how—in spite of the sense one received in the early 1990s of a tearing down of public monuments; statues of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin in particular; in a repudiation of nearly 75 years of Soviet history and oppression—there remained in very town, in the main square, some statue of Lenin, standing, declaiming, striding.

It was clear—and I discussed this with local guides and others—that a decision was made to keep these images intact, since they are part of the history of Russia, and not to tear them all down as symbols of an oppressive Soviet regime that ruled Russia for a period of time. It is essential that people remain aware of their history—the bad parts so that they are not repeated, the good parts so that they may be emulated. This is an idea particularly connected to a dictum associated with the philosopher Santayana, and the Russians seem in this case to get the idea.

Should we not get it, as well? I could not be more disgusted by the American history of slavery or the recent extraordinary upsurging reminder that racism, antisemitism and a host of other forms of bigotry still prevail in our country. But I strongly believe that tearing down public statues of Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson is not only not the answer, it runs contrary to the educational potential of art, especially public art. Do we, by the way, also tear down statues of other slave owners, like Washington and Jefferson? Or do we use all of these images as a stepping-off point to remind and educate ourselves to what we were when not at our best and to what we still need to do to make ourselves better—as individuals, as communities, and as a country?

Was Lee’s sin that he owned slaves or that he saw Virginia first and the Federal Union second—or both? The point is: it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we need to ask about these things, try to understand them and use them to better our world. Instead of tearing down or covering up these statues, or carting them off to museums, why not use them as the basis for an annual, dynamic program (have schoolkids take part in a kind of American Passion Play!) in which the story of what was wrong—and also what was right—about these people will encourage us to work actively to improve our communities.

Voyage en Pologne

Ruins of Warsaw Ghetto, leveled by German forces, according to Adolf Hitler's order, after suppressing of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in 1943. North-west view, left- the Krasinski's Garden and Swietojerska street, photo taken in 1945
Source: Wikipedia

Il était une fois un garçon de onze ans. Un été, il partit en voiture avec ses parents de Paris à Cracovie. Lorsqu’il traversa la frontière polonaise, sa randonnée dura trois semaines, dans un pays hanté par ses fantômes. Ce garçon ne savait pas à quoi s’en tenir. Il pensait que l’air qui circulait autour de lui foisonnait de présences inexplicables. Dans les villes, à travers les campagnes reluisantes, qu’importe. Et puis, un jour, il demanda à ses parents de le conduire à Auschwitz-Oswiecim. Il insista. Son père rata le tournant par trois fois. Enfin, conduisant à dix kilomètres à l’heure, ils aperçurent un panneau indicateur qui mesurait à peine soixante centimètres. L’inscription portait le nom d’Oswiecim, chaque lettre noire soigneusement formée. Une flamme rouge servait de ponctuation. La route étroite mena la petite troupe directement au camp. Elle ne s’y attarda pas car la mère du garçon voulait quitter ces lieux maudits à tout prix. Mais le garçon voulait rester. Il était fasciné par les montagnes de cheveux, de lunettes, de valises, de peignes, de prothèses, les instruments de torture médiévaux pour écraser les cervelles, le mur contre lequel les détenus étaient assassinés par un peloton d’exécution.

Ils quittèrent le camp pour se rendre à Varsovie. Là, par un dimanche après-midi ensoleillé, le garçon et ses parents se promenaient le long des avenues désertes de la ville, dont les murs blancs l’aveuglaient tellement ils étaient éblouissants. Puis, venant de nulle part, ils tombèrent sur un juif chasidique, sa tête à peine visible dans l’embrasure d’une petite fenêtre au rez-de-chaussée d’un immeuble. C’était un bouquiniste. Ils lui achetèrent trois livres sur la Pologne, l’un deux s’intitulait: “Nous n’avons pas oublié, we have not forgotten, wir haben nicht es vergessen ! » Ce livre devint la bible du garçon sur la capacité inépuisable de l’homme à commettre des actes de cruauté contre hommes, femmes, et enfants, sans distinction.

Nous sommes seuls, en compagnie des âmes de millions d’hommes, de femmes, et d’enfants avalés dans un ouragan de haine et de cruauté, perdus à jamais, leurs cendres parsemées dans le vent, réduits en poussière, relégués à la terre. Des âmes agitées.

Twice plundered: two paintings by forgotten artist Ilona Singer-Weinberger

by Misha Sidenberg, Jewish Museum of Prague, Czech Republic

Man in a Brown Suit (also known as Man with a Cigarette, 1928, oil on canvas, c. 55 x 46.5 cm, signed and dated LR: Ilona Singer / 1928) by an unjustly forgotten artist Ilona Singer-Weinberger (1905-1944/1945), adherent of the New Objectivity and a graduate of the "Vereignete Staatschulen für freie und angewandte Kunst" in Berlin where she studied between 1923-1925, was included to the Prague Jewish Museum’s collection on July 18, 1944.

"Main in a Brown Suit"
Source: Google

Property card for "Man in a Brown Suit"
Source: Jewish Museum, Prague

Like so many other objects, it had come from the "Treuhandstelle-Prag" depot, a “central collecting point” for property left behind by Jewish deportees from Prague and its immediate vicinity (the so-called Oberlandrat Prag) and subsequently “liquidated.” Provenance clues available on the paintings (see the transport number Dh 188 on the stretcher) confirm that the painting was confiscated from the private possession of Ilona Singer’s sister, Margit Hahn (1902-1944).  “Dh 188” is the number under which Margit was registered for a transport to the Theresienstadt Ghetto (German for Terezín, a transit concentration camp for Jews, located roughly 30 miles northwest of Prague).

Wood Framing
Source: Google

Margit, almost three years Ilona’s senior, a deaf-mute woman of stunning beauty, had a single child, Jan (1926-1944/45). After several repeatedly failed attempts to obtain an immigration visa to Shanghai, Margit and Jan Hahn found themselves trapped in Prague from where they were deported to Theresienstadt in July 1943. Once there, they joined Ilona and her husband Felix who had been brought there earlier that year in January from the town of Hodonín in Southern Moravia. The whole family, including Emilia, the mother of Margit and Ilona, née Rindler, and Felix’s parents, was murdered “nach dem Osten [in the East].” Emilia had already been deported to Treblinka in 1942. The rest of the family members were sent to Auschwitz. None survived the war. Five of Ilona’s paintings remain unclaimed in the collection of the Prague Jewish Museum. Three of those works had been confiscated from Ilona’s sister Margit, the two others from private owners. Two of the three paintings originally owned by Margit went mysteriously missing after 1967, only to resurface at the Dorotheum Prague auction house in 2008 and 2009.

The Man with a Cigarette was sold in 2008 despite protests by the Jewish Museum in Prague, which demanded its withdrawal from sale. According to the public auction records, the painting changed hands one more time in 2010, at an auction organized by Hampel Auction House in Munich.

A Boy with a Teddy Bear
Source: Google

The second painting, A Boy with a Teddy Bear, which had been offered for sale at the Dorotheum Prag in May 2009, was withdrawn from sale as a result of persistent efforts by the Prague Jewish Museum to stop the sale. However, due to insufficient legislation in the Czech Republic, the painting was returned to the consignor (the same person who only eight months earlier had sold the Man with a Cigarette).

Both paintings, the Man with a Cigarette and the Boy with a Teddy Bear, were stolen from the Jewish Museum in Prague after 1967 under dubious circumstances. The two stolen paintings remained in private hands until 2008 and 2009 respectively. Then they were offered for sale at Dorotheum Prague. At least one of the paintings –Portrait of a Man with a Cigarette – was sold even though the auctioneers knew that it had been confiscated from its rightful owner during the Holocaust. As for the Boy with a Teddy Bear, its present whereabouts are unknown.

Advice to the current owner(s) of the above-described two works by Ilona Singer: they are cultural assets looted during the Holocaust. They must be returned to the Jewish Museum in Prague so that it can facilitate their restitution to their rightful owners.

Ilona Singer-Weinberger (1905-1944/1945)
Boy with a Teddy Bear, 1927
Oil on canvas, 55 x 45 cm
Signed and dated LR: Ilona Singer, 1927

Provenance:

1927 (?) – 1943 – private collection of Margit Hahn (1902-1944), sister of the artist who was deported in 1943 from Prague to the ghetto of Theresienstadt and subsequently to Auschwitz where she was murdered along with her son and the most of her family. (The transport number in the war-time Prague Jewish Museum catalogue card is mistyped from Dh 188 to Eh 188).

July 18, 1944 – until at least 1967 – collection of the Jewish Museum in Prague

Missing since 1967 (or a later date)

In May 2009 put for an auction at Dorotheum Prague, Czech Republic, withdrawn from sale, present whereabouts unknown

Property card for "Boy with a Teddy Bear"
Source: Jewish Museum, Prague