The Orpheus Clock

by Simon Goodman

  I was relieved the next day when we arrived in Dresden. Lili and her son Enrico were there to greet us. She was now moving nimbly about on just one stick; gone even were the crutches. As we made our way to dinner across the Neumarkt, she seemed to navigate the cobblestones with ease. Her cane came in handy for pointing out the Baroque wonders of the beautifully reconstructed Frauenkirche. For so many years after the war, the East German authorities had left the remnants of the eighteenth-century church as a pile of rubble on the side of the Neumarkt place. Like a native Dresdner, my aunt seemed to take enormous pride in the skilled restoration of the high-domed church—perhaps it was a symbol of reconciliation between the old and new Germanys. Dinner was traditional, hearty, local fare in what had been an old wine cellar. An accordion was playing, and men were humming old drinking songs. As the singing got louder, May and I instinctively began to feel uncomfortable. May thought it was a scene out of Cabaret. Lili, by comparison, appeared to take it all in her stride. She was enjoying herself and nothing was going to stop her.

  The next day the Eugen-Gutmann-Gesellschaft had rented a bus, which took us along the river to Pillnitz Castle for a formal luncheon. The many speeches extolled the influences on German life and the economy that had been brought about by the now-combined Dresdner and Commerzbank. The dark period between 1931 and 1945 was barely touched on—how the Dresdner Bank, which had essentially been a Jewish bank, became the bank of choice for the SS. (During the Nuremberg trials, the chairman of the board of the Aryanized bank was sentenced to seven years in prison.) To the modern Dresdner’s credit, in 2006 they published an exhaustive four-volume history, The Dresdner Bank in the Third Reich.

  The speeches at lunch emphasized the postwar innovators and the original driving force: Eugen Gutmann. Lili took great pains to explain to the new Commerzbank powers-that-be our family connection to both banks. Jacob and Eugen von Landau had been instrumental in the founding of the Commerzbank, and Louise’s first cousin Kurt Sobernheim was one of the first directors. One way or another, the Gutmann–Von Landaus had been connected to just about every bank in Germany before the war; some had said that was part of our problem. All the bankers and officials were keenly interested in my forthcoming book.

  Our return trip to Dresden was pleasant. We returned leisurely by boat, along the river Elbe, to the Florence of the North. Just out of sight, on the hill above, was the fairy-tale castle Schloss Schönfeld, where our great-great-grandfather Bernhard had lived nearly 140 years before.

  Back in Dresden, we went to a performance at the Semper Opera House. Again there were many family ties. Bernhard had helped finance the rebuilding in 1869, after the first time it had burned down. In 1945, again all but a shell had remained. Now we were sitting in the almost identical third incarnation. My great-grandmother Sophie, who sang here, would hardly have known the difference. But I’m sure she would have enjoyed the good production of Tosca.

  The next day, after breakfast, we walked to the last surviving branch of the Dresdner Bank that had kept the name. (The others had all become Commerzbank.) The manager and a city official greeted us. Cameramen were there to take our picture next to a copy of the bust of Eugen, which was in the lobby. The original bust, by Hugo Lederer, had been smashed to the ground when the Brownshirts had stormed into the Berlin headquarters in May 1933—that fateful day when they began burning books in the Opernplatz just in front of Dresdner Bank.

  On our last day in Dresden, May and I made straight for the Grünes Gewölbe (Green Vault), one of Eugen’s and my favorite places. The Saxon Kings’ enormous treasure-house never ceased to amaze. As I stood spellbound by all 140 jewel-encrusted figures that make up Johann Dinglinger’s masterpiece, The Birthday of the Grand Mogul, I felt Eugen looking over my shoulder again. In the afternoon, we went to the Jewish cemetery, which had survived so miraculously, to pay our final respects. Everybody was in place: Bernhard on the east wall, surrounded in marble by his wife and many of his children; Alfred, somewhat independently, on the south wall with his favorite daughter. It was all quite reassuring, but just in case anything happened to the cemetery, I must have taken photographs of about one hundred headstones.

  It was time to get back to business. Lili returned to Italy, while I rented a car and drove quickly, right across Germany, back to Stuttgart and the clocks. When we arrived at the Old Castle the next morning, we were greeted by Dr. Heuss, as well as Dr. Irmgard Müsch, the curator of clocks and scientific instruments, and Moritz Paysan, the head restorer. The Renaissance castle, we learned, was home to the Württemberg State Collection and consisted of a staggering eight hundred thousand objects. We were led down the ancient stone stairs of the tower that housed the clocks. Our hosts proudly explained that the collection consisted of nearly seven hundred unique timepieces, dating from the fifteenth to the nineteenth centuries. However, they only exhibited the most exceptional pieces, maybe forty at a time. When we reached the bottom of the stairway, May and I felt as if we were entering Aladdin’s Cave. Each priceless timepiece was illuminated with invisible lights, sheltered in its own Gothic alcove. We went past an exotically domed clock that looked as if it had been made for the Ottoman Sultan, and then I caught sight of the Orpheus Clock.

  Our clock was more golden than I had realized and slightly larger. Once more I had that strong sensation of reconnecting with my ancestors. The privilege of holding what had once been lost was humbling. Yet again, I had underestimated the beauty of the artwork. I began to think of how, almost exactly fourteen years before, Nick and I had held our Degas Paysage for the first time.

  A little farther on was the amazing Ostrich, also much larger and more imposing than I had ever imagined. Dr. Müsch proudly demonstrated that, on the rare occasions he was carefully wound up, his wings would still flap, just as they had in 1575. Still deeper in this chamber of marvels we came upon the Reinhold Clock, beautifully lit and shinning in its own Gothic showcase. Moritz Paysan opened the case for me and invited me to pick it up. At first I could not; I had not taken into account its deceptive weight. Johann Reinhold had ingeniously fit together endless cogs and wheels, all made of brass and iron, so that all nine dials could operate independently. Moritz, interestingly, confirmed Fremersdorf’s first impression: on his first attempt to restore the mechanisms, to his surprise he’d discovered sand still inside.

  The Ostrich automaton on display in Stuttgart.

  After lunch we made our way to a pleasantly airy conference room, on the other side of the castle complex. Dr. Ewigleben made the introductions. It all seemed very agreeable, but I could not help noticing that, apart from May, I was on my own and about to face nine Germans across the table: two senior officials from the ministry, one translator, and six principals from the museum. I took a deep breath and tried to remind myself that legally the clocks were already ours.

  Before arriving in Stuttgart I had already sent the museum and the ministry an aggregate chart of the high and low auction estimates that both Christie’s and Sotheby’s had suggested. As soon as the political niceties were over, the senior ministerial counsel outlined the estimates they had received from their expert. To my relief, they were not so far off the mark. It was important to keep a clear objective, and I had a number below which I would not go. The ministry’s counsel then made their offer. I countered by pointing out that, under normal circumstances, a private buyer pays a premium for the privilege of taking an artwork off the market. I was quick to add that I had already made some concessions, largely because of the exemplary way the museum had conducted the restitution. Also, my family appreciated the way our clocks had been cared for, not to mention the spectacular way they were exhibited. Then I spelled out what I would accept. I had a duty to secure the best possible compensation for my family, not least because of the inordinate time we had been deprived of our legacy. Dr. Ewigleben and the counsel for the ministry looked at each other and then back at me: “We accept your terms.” I had done it. It was agreed.

  “We also re
gret what happened to your family,” the official continued. “We are grateful, however, for the opportunity to set, at least, this matter straight.”

  We got up from the table, and one by one they all shook my hand. They thanked me for my reasonable and constructive approach.

  “I am also grateful that my family’s clocks have found such a good home,” I offered in reply.

  Eventually Lili and Eva, and many others, would come to visit our Orpheus Clock and our Reinhold Clock. Lili even got to see her favorite Ostrich again.

  • • •

  May and I emerged in the October sun exhausted and elated. With deep satisfaction, that evening I broke the news to all the family. Soon, I was receiving thank-you messages from all sorts of unexpected places, and from descendants of Eugen I barely knew. Eighty-four-year-old Alexander, from the shores of Lake Constance in Switzerland, touched me particularly as he recalled his mother telling him how they had been cut off from any Gutmann inheritance. If there had been a curse because of the Silver Collection, had I helped break it?

  It occurred to me that the clock, as it turned, counted the good times along with the bad. For many years my family had suffered greatly. I was hoping this fortunate occasion symbolized a new, peaceful, and successful era for the Gutmanns.

  • • •

  Before returning to Los Angeles I had to visit one more museum, the Germanisches Nationalmuseum in Nuremberg. After my fairly thorough tour of the museum, one item caught my eye on the way out, a Bohemian crystal cup. I was beginning to develop a photographic memory for at least Fritz’s and Eugen’s collections. I was almost certain I had seen the cup before. This would be a good test. May and I quickly took a dozen pictures of it. As we headed back to Stuttgart and the airport, I began to cross-reference my Eugen Silbersammlung photo file from my laptop on the train. Soon, there it was, the exact image: von Falke number 108; crystal bowl, silver-gilt stand, Prague ca. 1600. I quickly sent off an e-mail inquiry. When we got home, I sent a more formal letter. The last response I received was that they were still looking into it. I added them to the growing list of museums that are supposed to get back to me.

  It is time to return to my quest. I will have to end my book.

  CHAPTER 16

  POSTSCRIPT: ON REFLECTION

  On the trail of the missing Tetzel Cat, with a nineteenth-century copy in Nuremberg, 2012.

  While the Orpheus Clock negotiations were well under way, I discovered an unexpected but vital clue about the whereabouts of our two missing Francesco Guardi landscapes. All of which brought back strange memories of my father. I now realized Bernard had been so close in his pursuit of these beautiful Venetian capriccios. I must have been ten or so when he took me to a secluded palazzo in Venice, belonging to a collector he suspected. What was stranger, though, was that the paintings had, I now realized, been in the collector’s Mayfair apartment in London all along, just a block or so from Shepherd Market, where we lived at the time. I remember Pa laughing strangely when he recalled how he had never been invited to their London home.

  Years later I picked up the trail in an art gallery in Zurich, where I posed as a Guardi collector. Now finally I had proof of who had sold them. I contacted the auction house involved, which not surprisingly was rather embarrassed. They wanted to close the case discreetly; accordingly they made me a reasonable offer, even though under Swiss law my family no longer had good title. The alternative was court, and I accepted their offer with a heavy heart. The bitter pill of compromise was always hard to swallow. These two paintings, among the many of Fritz’s collection, I would most dearly have loved to keep. At least I had closed another case and settled an old mystery.

  Several other cases, including a major compensation issue with the French government, were calling for my attention. One day I would also have to find time to file an appeal for the money the Dutch government had forced my father and aunt to pay. Furthermore, the legalities of the sale of Bosbeek continued to bother me, and now a question had arisen of property in Berlin that had once belonged to the family. The list seemed endless, but before I immersed myself in the next round of legal battles, I realized I needed time to reflect. I had been so busy, I had barely had time to assess the remarkable events of the past several years, and the enormous changes that had taken place in my life.

  • • •

  Growing up in London in the fifties and sixties, I indentified with little except for the exciting new music that was springing up all around. The Stones and the Kinks had been favorites. The breaking down of old barriers was exhilarating. The last thing on my mind was the career in banking my parents suggested. The rigidity of life in the financial district represented exactly what I was trying to distance myself from. In contrast, the rebellious spirit of the emerging music business was particularly appealing. The music world offered a welcome haven for England’s misfits, young men such as myself.

  When my father died and those boxes arrived, I had for several years been a distributor of rock music in LA—an exciting and challenging enough way to earn a living, but still one that focused on the increasingly trivial whims of pop culture. Suddenly I was to be thrust into the world of Renaissance art, Jewish history, and the horrors of the Second World War. Yet I adapted quickly. I was finally extricating myself from the 1960s and reentering the world of my roots—the world I was probably educated for. Almost overnight, my dormant passion for art and history found a vital focus. I was grateful for this new purpose in life.

  At the beginning, some reminded me, “You can’t change the past.” Many friends suggested I should move on, that no good would come from lingering in the past. But what if the past was not over? I found that my family’s history was not pulling me back but pushing me forward. In the middle of the night I would sit bolt upright realizing so much was still to be done.

  Even if my father had explicitly told me not to follow in his path, I’m not sure I would have listened. I can be just as stubborn as he was. Besides, I took the arrival of those boxes, combined with his silence, to be an implicit appeal to finish his life’s work.

  My brother and I had also inherited Bernard’s determination. I don’t think for a minute I ever thought I was embarking on a fool’s errand. One man can make a difference. Despite our adversaries all being rich and powerful, I always had faith that right would prevail, however long it took.

  From the earliest age I had carried with me an unidentified sense of loss. Growing up in a silent void, I only recognized much later in life the invisible “elephant in the room,” the Nazi cataclysm that had almost obliterated my family. Whether unconsciously or not, I had clearly been affected by my forefathers’ suffering, and as a result I found it difficult to rest. Only by addressing their unfinished business, reaching back to change the past however minutely, did I find some solace. As I embarked on this quest to find my family’s lost treasures, a solution to my underlying grief emerged. The more I traced our hidden artworks, the more my family’s buried history resurfaced. As I placed yet one more piece of the shattered jigsaw puzzle back together, the lost lives became tangible once more. With each piece came a little renewed pride. Today I am comforted by knowing my place in all this. I no longer suffer from an isolation of rootlessness. My roots are deep and wide, with ancestors that go back many centuries and relatives on four continents.

  • • •

  Of course I never actually heard any voices nor saw any visions, but over the last years I have felt profoundly the presence of my father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather. A French psychologist coined the term psychogenealogy, or “ancestor syndrome”—where some of us are links in an unconscious chain through the generations. Another psychotherapist, in Jerusalem, working with Holocaust survivors and their children, also developed the theory that survivors often designated a particular child as a “memorial candle”: one who took on the mission of preserving the past and connecting to the future. This concept struck a particular chord with me. Many times I felt I had i
nherited what appeared to be ancestral memories.

  More than once during my research, an unknown artwork has stood out as I instinctively recognized something Fritz or Eugen had collected. It dawned on me that at least some of the art my family had lovingly collected might also serve as memorial candles. After all, the art, along with the family, had suffered, too. The Stuck ripped from its frame, the Renoir locked in a dank repository, the Orpheus Clock buried in the sand. The difference, I suppose, was that art had the potential for immortality. Unlike humans with their brief lives, these beautiful objects could reach across the generations, each with a story to tell if only one could unlock its secrets.

  I have stared at Lenbach’s portrait of Eugen so many times convinced it might speak to me at any moment. I have studied, endlessly, the Man Ray portraits of Fritz and Louise in my library, certain they had a message to decipher. While Fritz looked off into the distance, almost wistfully, Louise with her deep, aching brown eyes seemed to look straight into my soul.

  Each time I recovered any piece of their collection, however small, it felt like a significant vindication for my once-maligned family. Many would tell me how proud Bernard, and Fritz and Louise, and Eugen must be. I have often felt them looking over my shoulder. How often I have wondered if they can see all that has happened. I certainly hope there is a way they know we still care.

  APPENDIX 1

  APPENDIX 2

  RECOVERED ART

  THE FRITZ GUTMANN COLLECTION RECOVERED

  Please note that this is an incomplete and partial list and by no means the definitive, complete catalog of art.