by H. G. Adler
Thus the old time came to a sudden end, and it lasted a long while, until a couple of strangers noisily pressed their way into the dwelling. They stomped coldly and insensitively through all the rooms, their hands raw and wrapping their uniforms tight. They strode around confidently, and yet not at home, and wrote down things as being so long and so wide, so tall and so short, not paying any attention to things, counting, measuring, turning this way and that and knocking things over. Finally one of them looked at the pictures, shoved his way over, growled and whistled, a finger leaving a mark in the dust.
“Hey, look at this! Worthless, everyday stuff.”
Then the bunch of them tramped off, having noted down everything that slept fitfully in the dwelling. Again, many months passed before another loose regiment showed up with a thrashing bluster. The men chalked letters and numbers on beds and tables, lifting the groaning pictures off rusting nails in the walls and marking them with the same fat red pencil and signature on the back of each. In crates, suitcases, boxes, sacks, and bundles they packed it all up, schlepping the weight with shuffling steps down the stairs and out to the street, loading the decaying goods into the back of an empty van. Things tossed in any which way, coming apart at the seams, breaking into pieces, dumped in all together, all of it worn and tattered. One wearing a cap looked intently in all the corners of the ravaged dwelling and clapped his hands as if he wanted with the echo to tease out anything concealed in all the hidden niches. Yet nothing appeared, and now the inspector reached up to grab a window’s crossbar, rapped on the wood of the swaying doors, then closed up the emptied site, hurried to the truck, gave the driver a nod, and already the load was off to the warehouse. It was to the ceremonial hall of a cemetery outside the mountain town that they traveled. When they arrived it was raining; otherwise, it was still all around. The men jumped from the truck, the turnkey heard them from inside, scratched his head, and came out to have a look at the load. He nodded a greeting, complained about the weather, wrapped a broken dish, his bald head wrinkling with a smile. The inspector handed the turnkey his consignment book, everything written down in it, the names as well.
“Eugene Lebenhart and Emmi Lebenhart. Hey, that’s the Lebenharts from Ufergasse! They must have had some nice things.”
“Not really.”
“A lot of it is broken. Sure. Yet they had money once.”
“You always know everything, and everyone.”
“Of course, I knew them. You don’t believe me? Who, I ask you, didn’t know them! Fancy goods, that was quite a shop! They did a tremendous business!”
“Buy something for yourself!”
“I can’t buy anything. But they used to be rich, that I can tell you.”
“No, what did they have left of it?”
“Left of it.… You got it all!”
The men said nothing more about how good things had once been for Eugene and Emmi Lebenhart, nor did they say anything much, for they had to hurry. The cargo had to be quickly unloaded and stuffed in the ceremonial hall. All the furniture was carried, carpets were piled up, mirrors, glass, and such stuff handled with some care, so that it all didn’t rattle to pieces, books stacked on one another, kitchen stuff placed in the foyer, sewing stuff in the morgue, though for miscellaneous things there was no room. The turnkey complained that it was high time all this junk was cleared out, which the Department for House Clearings had to get through its head, what with every day more loads showing up and no room for all the plunder, which also needed to be sorted through. The inspector nodded, yes, there was no telling where to take it all. But the turnkey said that everything here was a mess, and he knew it. The workers pushed and shoved the load into the storehouse, the pictures also hauled in and placed in a corner where many others lay in the dark. Then the inspector left with his workers. Soon after the warehouse was so full that finally others listened to the turnkey and hauled most of the rest away.
The pictures went to the school, three classrooms filled with them. They were hauled upstairs, one after another, not very gently or orderly, only the big ones being watched out for. Thus all the things from the house were stacked up and banished, thirty and fifty of them at a time. With battens they cut from laths, the stacks were secured so that they didn’t collapse, narrow passages between remaining free.
Herr Schnabelberger opened up and led me into the first room. The air was muggy and warm, a sweet gray mustiness rising up in the darkened room, into which daylight wearily spread its yellow through windows half blocked off by shades. My eyes would soon have gotten used to this darkness, which felt a bit odd, but Herr Schnabelberger snapped on the light, it flooding the room with a brownish-yellow glow that reminded me of mellow apples in bins from the previous year’s harvest.
“You’re not really an art historian, but that doesn’t matter, Herr Dr. Landau. It’s good work. And you are intelligent and know how to help yourself. Otherwise, I will help you out when necessary. Here and in both rooms that I still have to show you is our collection of family pictures. All in all, there are around five thousand pieces. Some excellent examples, in which one recognizes right away the hand of a good painter, were separated out right away. The loveliest one is already in the exhibition room and is museum quality. But, also, the paintings in my room and what you see in the staircase are worth hardly less. We hope that someday we can hang it all in a dignified manner, restore any damage, and make them available to the public in a gallery of our museum. What’s here in this room and what otherwise might show up among the inventory of portraits is probably not worth very much, most of it weak, nothing more than trash, simply useless kitsch. People let themselves be painted by mawkish, fashionable painters, by ridiculous dilettantes, sometimes not even from life, but just from photos, flatteringly, and therefore clumsily flattered. There are even photos painted over with oil paint.”
Herr Schnabelberger stopped. I didn’t know whether he was expecting me to speak. In order just to say something, I quietly said, “So many, many terrible paintings of our dead.”
“One can’t say that without knowing more. Certainly there must still be something good to find. I’d say that, among over five thousand paintings that have hardly been touched, there must be something decent. That will indeed be your task, and perhaps, even most likely—I have no doubt about it—amid the entire crowd you’ll uncover real treasures.”
“A treasure hunter, then?”
I smiled in bemusement and moved to lean on a stack of paintings.
“For heaven’s sake, be careful! The laths are just loosely inserted and can give way! All we have is paper dowels. That would be a fine mess! I have to ask you to always take care and, you know, this is a matter of trust that we are asking of you, even if I wouldn’t exactly call it treasure hunting.”
“What actually needs to be done with it all?”
“Inventory, Herr Dr. Landau.”
“Who do they belong to? In order to give them back to whoever survived, or possible descendants?”
“That could maybe happen, but you yourself know—”
“Rarely.”
“Very rarely. And then the problem of verification. We’re not at all qualified. In any case, matters of restitution are long and drawn out. Luckily, we have a right to veto them when it comes to objects of special artistic, historic, or museum-quality value. Frau Dr. Kulka already has her own special plans for the museum and its future development. Therefore she’s hard-nosed and ready to fight like a lioness when there are things that we want for ourselves. But we’re pleased that so far not much has been asked about. People don’t think about the museum; they want houses, businesses, and banknotes back, or jewelry. It’s only natural.”
“Of course.”
“But through research we can help, that’s clear, and I don’t agree with Frau Dr. Kulka’s view. She actually feels that no one can force us to share our results. I’m of the opposite opinion. But no matter how it is, until now we’ve hardly had to hand over anything. The n
umber of ongoing claims is very small indeed.”
“That’s actually terrible.”
“I think so as well. But what good does that do? We have to save what we can. And then there’s the museum to consider. At first, I didn’t share that. No wonder, for you should know that I was actually trained as an electrician. But you change with the times. The past is past, and soon you approach things anew. Once you’ve been here a couple of weeks, the same thing will happen to you. I guarantee it.”
“If something is beautiful, really beautiful, I can imagine that if no one comes who claims to be the rightful owner, then I can see how one would want to save it, as you say. But when there are things that hold only private meaning but otherwise are of no interest—that is, no interest to a museum, and are therefore worthless—doesn’t that present a monstrous burden?”
“What are you thinking? The only justification would be a lack of space, though the government has promised to give us all we need. But, above all, it’s something Frau Dr. Kulka simply won’t hear of. Nothing is worthless to a museum! Just think of the singular opportunity to bring together such a broad collection of portraits! Even with a limitless budget over decades, you couldn’t bring it all together under one roof in such a way!”
“So then will the museum become a kind of memorial to our dead?”
“No, you don’t understand! But I can’t explain it to you as well as Frau Dr. Kulka can. Such a memorial is not at all what it’s about. In fact, we have very special plans. You’ll see by and by. No, we are not at all thinking of presenting this collection in its entirety, either from an art historical point of view or for the clueless viewer to whom it all looks the same, although we do want to display an extensive special collection. Yet the tasks that we have before us are quite different. The reason they have been directly set before you is because you are a sociologist. A general overview tells us nothing, nor would two or four paintings, for that’s not enough. But now imagine hundreds, thousands, of such paintings! Everyone could then study them! Anthropologists, physiologists, family historians, local historians, general historians, even those interested in fashion; in short, what can I say, for you yourself can add up the number of perspectives on your own fingers. We possess a singular treasure trove of family portraits from citizens of the city from the past hundred and fifty years.”
“I see.…”
“There, now you understand. And that’s what you’ll be cataloging. How big the painting is with and without a frame, whether it’s painted on canvas or wood, in oil or pastels, a description of who is portrayed, be it an individual or a couple or a group, the head, from the chest up, the entire figure, straight on, in profile, the hair color, eyes, nose, mouth, chin, the approximate age; in short, the particulars you find in a passport, though you can record them more vividly and in greater detail, and then the clothing, as well as the jewelry, what’s depicted in the background, and special attributes, the condition, commentary on the type and quality of the frame, when possible the confirmation of the name of the one portrayed—in any case, the consignment number and other details that make the identification easier, or a description of the painter, whether there is a signature or it is anonymous, what year it was done or the estimated time period. By doing this, you’ll develop a catalog that will be of real use. We already have a model to follow. Frau Dr. Kulka did one up. It’s easy, in fact, but also interesting, even a pleasure, I must say, and you’ll be pleased to be able to be a part of the museum’s staff.”
“Shall I do it all right here?”
“Oh, no. You’ll get a lovely small, well-lit room on the third floor, with an office. You can set it up however you please.”
“And the paintings?”
“You will also have assistants to help you, as many as you wish. Perhaps Herr Woticky, he’s very nice. Work with the material at your own pace. As soon as I can get you a secretary, you can dictate everything onto the typewriter. Frau Dr. Kulka will explain it all to you in even greater detail. You can always ask her for advice. And, of course, I’m always here to help.”
“Many thanks! Where do the paintings go?”
“You mean after they’re cataloged? We’ve already found a solution to that. Some rooms will be emptied out—in fact, this is one of them. Here we have heaps of prayer books, ten thousand of them, and they—”
“Prayer books?”
“Yes. From all the emptied-out houses throughout the country—single-volume, three- and nine-volume editions, unfortunately many of them missing pages, though many remain just the way they were found. What can still be used in some way needs to be bundled into groups of ten or twelve and for now will be stored in the cellar. Sometimes you’ll have to supervise. We have some internees doing the work who are paid a pittance, collaborators, but seemingly harmless people who don’t like to work. That’s why you have to buck them up a little. A cigarette often works wonders.”
“So they’re also in the cellar.”
“Unfortunately. That doesn’t seem right to me, either, as the cellar is not completely dry. But the prayer books are just in the way. There’s nothing else that can be done with them. They are of use to no one.”
“No one.”
“No, no one, it’s a catastrophe. Yet we hope to mail a large shipment of them to America sometime soon, though, of course, for a trifle. That would be the best solution. We’ve already begun negotiations with members of the Committee on Reconstruction.”
“And the paintings?”
“They will be placed in the empty rooms in proper storage. We have already completed the drawings for a three-story set of wooden bays in which the paintings can comfortably be accessed and arranged by catalog number. I recommend that while cataloging them you always do so in groups, such as similar sizes, which is easy to do. The ones that give us the most trouble are the large-format paintings. But for these beasts we will perhaps build special bays.”
That reminded me. I asked if I could perhaps see one of the paintings.
“With pleasure. Just be careful, for the paintings are incredibly dusty. But you’ll soon get used to that.”
I lifted up the next average-sized painting, carefully but a bit clumsily, a coat of dust covering it that I blew away.
“There, right away you see the consignment number. That’s a help. Unfortunately, during the war they were so sloppy and didn’t always pay attention. Then we end up groping in the dark.”
I looked more closely; perhaps it was a painting from the house of someone I knew. It trembled in my fingers, the frame slipping from my hand and falling with a soft crash back onto the pile from which it had come.
“I’m sorry, I’m a bit clumsy.”
“That I see. Look, this is how you grab hold of a frame and don’t get yourself dirty.”
Herr Schnabelberger carefully lifted the painting high with hands spread out flat, yet the picture frame had loosened and the canvas fell out. I bent down to pick it up.
“That, unfortunately, happens fairly often. The paintings have not been handled right. It’s a disgrace.”
“A disgrace. Really. Sad.”
“People were overwhelmed. Also, they had no interest, always in a hurry, and you can’t expect any understanding of art from the Department of House Clearings.”
“It’s a kind of graveyard.”
“Yes, but we awaken the dead to a new life.”
“When it works.”
“That’s our task.”
Herr Schnabelberger tried with some deftness to put the painting and the frame back together. Like someone experienced in selling paintings, he told me about the quality of the painting itself.
“A lovely old grandpa. The beard tells me it’s from 1880 or so. Of course, it’s a conventional piece, a bit of bourgeois finery. The frame, this typical black-and-gold, is not worth anything. Look, it’s plaster that’s crumbling. Carved frames were too expensive, but it had to look splendid.”
The old man with his white beard bobbed
before us and looked on serenely. His stiff demeanor did not ease, no matter how vigorously Herr Schnabelberger handled the painting. What happened to the old man remained distant and unknown, the eyes gazing dully and a little sleepily—so helpless, as if they wanted to be cleaned off. I took out my handkerchief in order to try to get a better look at him.
“If he were cleaned up, maybe one could recognize him.”
“You shouldn’t do that, Herr Dr. Landau. It doesn’t help the painting at all and could ruin your handkerchief. Are you really that interested in the man?”
“No, not really. But one never knows. I’ve always got my eyes open.”
“Sometimes the consignment holds the key.”
I bent down and read the number on the back.
“There’s also a name. But I can’t read it very well.”
“Here, I have a flashlight.”
“ ‘Eugene Lebenhart, Ufergasse 17.’ ”
“Someone you know?”
“No. A stranger. But is that the man in the painting?”
“No. You can see that the name and the address are in the same handwriting as the consignment number. Therefore that’s the name of the last owner of the place, who was shipped off.”