The Rape of Europa

  It was now clear that the famous Paris Salons would be allowed to continue, but not in their usual spaces in the Grand Palais, which remained full of trucks. The organizers were allowed to have the unfinished Tokyo, which Metternich had managed to save from similar use. The first to open would be the Salon des Indépendants in the winter of 1941. The committee was deluged with paperwork by the now better-organized Nazis, who demanded a declaration of Aryanism for each artist. Old jealousies reappeared. Some rejected artists were not above denouncing their more successful colleagues for having “anti-German tendencies,” whose accusations the Propaganda staff earnestly and carefully investigated, but were generally unable to substantiate.

  At the morning vernissage of the more conservative Salon of the Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts the German Army brass turned out in force and were led in by the French wife of Ambassador Abetz, surrounded by Vichy notables. The French hosts were puzzled when most of the military contingent abruptly left without having looked at the show, apparently in a snit because Mme Abetz had gotten all the attention. De Brinon, the Vichy commissioner in Paris, persuaded the conquerors to return the next day, and made sure they were suitably attended. Everyone had to learn the new social procedures.50

  These Salons were the first in a long series. A new Salon of Watercolor and Drawing was invented to keep the Tokyo galleries occupied and the Germans out in the summer of 1941. The following year the Musée d’Art Moderne, planned for the building before the outbreak of war, was allowed to open. A third of the collection was brought in from the Occupied Zone depots and exhibited while the rest remained in the repository at unoccupied Valençay. (Also missing was the designated director, Jean Cassou, who had been forced to resign on racial grounds the day after his appointment, but who was quite busy putting out a Resistance newspaper in the basements of the Musée de G Homme.) Press reaction was extremely favorable and the German authorities very much in evidence at the opening, despite the presence of works by Rouault, Matisse, Léger, Braque, Tanguy, and Vuillard, all mixed in with the “Beaux-Arts” pictures.51

  Down in the basements quite a different sort of collection had been assembled. The lower level with its modern truck ramps had recently been taken over by the ERR as an overflow storage area for the M-Aktion. Great piles of boxes were carefully divided by a grid of numbered and lettered avenues. Each perfectly measured square contained a different category of the goods so carefully classified on the ERR laundry lists: pianos, sheets, pillows, nightgowns, toys, and so forth. Twice a month a shipment went to the Reich, but the basements would still be completely full on the day Paris was liberated.52

  German efforts to win over the minds of the French by organizing cooperative artistic happenings were doomed to failure from the very beginning by their inability to conceal the totally cynical objectives behind such undertakings. Typical was the affair of the Salon des Prisonniers, held at the Musée Galliéra. Posters were put up in the French POW camps in Germany urging the prisoners to create works of art which would be sold to help their comrades. The Germans, anxious to show how well they treated their prisoners, arranged for the collection and transportation to Paris of all the paintings, carvings, and sad little objects made of tin cans and other camp debris. The possibility that a totally opposite propaganda effect could be created seems never to have occurred to them.

  The show, which opened in December 1940, included a small wooden altar carved by a prisoner. Before this little shrine the French Chaplain of the Camps said Mass early on Christmas Eve in the shadowy blacked-out spaces of the museum. The service was to be rebroadcast to the camps. Emotions ran high: the Nazis had not eased the curfew in Paris in order to allow the traditional midnight Mass. Yves Bizardel, curator of the Musée Galliéra, watching the kneeling crowd, noted that “hope, tenacious and fragile as a candle flame, was only a tiny stubborn glowing dot.” It would not be extinguished.53

  Side by side with these official manifestations the lives of the commercial Paris galleries and the artists who supplied them also managed to go on. “Degenerates” Braque and Picasso had returned to Paris in the autumn of 1940 after only brief absences. Braque found his studio intact and worked unmolested in the city all during the occupation, despite the presence directly across the street of a residence for German officers. Picasso, who had spent most of 1939 in a villa in Royan, north of Bordeaux, came back to his studio in the rue des Grands-Augustins, where he resumed his life of work and received the usual stream of visitors, now including Germans both admiring and suspicious. The latter came on the pretext of searching for “Jewish” works of art. Picasso and his entourage were vigilant during these visits, fearing that their interlocutors might plant an incriminating object somewhere in the vast reaches of the studio.

  For the more touristy types Picasso provocatively had postcards of his anti-Fascist masterpiece Guernica printed up, which he handed out as souvenirs. With the more sophisticated, such as Ernst Jünger, he discussed painting techniques and the war, which, they all agreed, “should end immediately so that people could turn on their lights again.”54 Throughout the occupation Picasso’s officially censored works were sold publicly at the Drouot and in discreet corners of such galleries as that of Louise Leiris, formerly Kahnweiler. Even Kandinsky, whose canvases were regularly ordered removed from dealers’ exhibitions, was not prevented from painting more; his works were shown in back-room gatherings along with those of the still relatively unknown Nicolas de Staël. Matisse sold drawings brought back from the Unoccupied Zone by Louis Carré, and illustrated an edition of Montherlant’s Pasiphaé, which was published by Fabiani. Not only did the Germans not persecute these icons of “degeneracy,” but in late 1941 they even courted a few of the French alumni of the Lucerne auction, who had, to be sure, toned down their unacceptable styles in the meantime, and sent them on a tour of the Reich.

  Braque in his Paris studio during the occupation

  This outing was the brainchild of the Propaganda Office. The invitees were told that French prisoners would be freed if they agreed to the visit. Certain material advantages, such as extra coal rations, were also promised. Many of the artists had been colleagues of Arno Breker, who had lived and worked in Paris between the wars. Twelve artists accepted, among them Derain and Vlaminck, whose Fauvism had diminished so considerably that they could almost now be considered naturalistic painters. Vlaminck had even turned to fulminating against modernism in general and Cubism in particular. Neither could have been ignorant of the fate of their fellow artists in Germany; Derain had even served, along with Braque, Ernst, Arp, and others, on a French committee organized to help condemned German artists escape from the Reich.

  After a disappointing tour of the studios and exhibitions of “correct” artists in Berlin, Nuremberg, and Munich, during which they were entertained by minor officials and never even met the Führer or Goebbels, the frail sculptor Charles Despiau noted that he had seen “as in a kaleidoscope, the vision of a new art. And this art, grandiose, larger than life, might perhaps have frightened rather than seduced me, had I not found Arno Breker heading its promoters.”55 The only thing which really impressed the group was the amount of state sponsorship German artists received.

  The German Institute in Paris took full advantage of the publicity generated by this tour and in May 1942 put on a retrospective of Breker’s works in the Orangerie. The idea was to promote a new “European” style. Breker, trained in France but loyal to the Reich, was the perfect choice to illustrate Franco-German solidarity. Laval pronounced himself “profoundly touched” that Breker should grace Paris with his works, Abel Bonnard praised Hitler for suggesting the show, and the collaborationist press invoked the dawning of a new age of grandeur. Art critics praised the “finished” nature of the works. Most of the artists who had travelled to Germany, joined by Maillol, whose Jewish model had been freed at Breker’s behest, were on the exhibition committee.56 Jean Cocteau and a bevy of other intellectuals who flirted throughout the occupation w
ith Nazi ideas were seen in force at the opening. No one there seemed to know that the bronze for some of the massive statues had come from the melteddown monuments of Paris itself or that they had been cast with the forced labor of French prisoners of war.

  These fiascos were reflected in the cultural policies of Vichy’s Révolution Nationale, which was, fortunately for posterity, only a pallid shadow of that of the Reich. Emphasis was on service to the state in order to achieve National Renewal. The idea, appealing to many artists, was that painters and sculptors would decorate public spaces with suitable but always distinctly French works. The artist was to emerge from his selfish isolation and contribute to the public good. The director of Beaux-Arts, Louis Hautecoeur, enthusiastic supporter of this policy, called for “greater discipline” at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, and considerable funds were allocated for a huge conglomeration of “classical sculpture,” running heavily to nymphs and monumental vases, by seventeen artists which was placed at the entrance of the Autoroute de l’Ouest.57

  The problem was what to do with France’s world-famous artists who, even though not exactly “Beaux-Arts,” could not be ignored. Bonnard was courted, and Braque was invited to design an emblem for the Vichy government and to participate in the German trip. He declined both.58 Vichy Radio even sent a reporter to interview Matisse. The first effort was a great success, being limited to such questions as “Why do you paint, M. Matisse?” and “When do you consider a work finished?” which the master answered with considerable grace. Alas, when the reporter returned he made the grave error of asking Matisse his opinion of the Prix de Rome, an award given annually to students of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. Matisse replied that “even picture postcards neglect its prize winners,” and in a few further phrases demolished the Ecole as “deadly for the young artist” and as “a mutual aid society out of which nothing lasting has ever come.” He was not interviewed again.59

  Unlike Hitler’s art policy, Vichy’s sanctions, other than the anti-Semitic ones, never went beyond this sort of discretion and constant fulmination in the press. Early efforts to organize a Chamber of Artists, aimed at “creating order” in the profession, brought forth a flurry of opposition, and were not pushed by the moderate Hautecoeur. His successor, Georges Hilaire, appointed by Laval in 1944, tried again, but the experiment foundered on the rocky problem of defining exactly who was an artist, who an amateur, and who a professional. If, for example, the requirements specified someone whose principal income came from his art, artists like Le Douanier Rousseau would not qualify. A proposal in one committee that the artists “swear an oath that they would exercise their jobs conscientiously without ever deserting the standards of their profession” reduced the meeting to “general hilarity” after one member envisaged an artist being reprimanded for painting a bottom “too pink” or “not round enough,” which was, of course, exactly what was being done in Germany. Added to this were proposals of rules for exclusion of an artist which would only occur after a complicated series of reprisals. This was so repugnant to the conferees that no artist could be found to serve on a judgmental board.60 The principles of the Reich Chamber of Culture, laughed to death, were not to be instituted in France.

  Public relations display illustrating ERR operations in the eastern occupied territories

  VII

  PLUS ÇA CHANGE

  The Invasion of the Soviet Union

  Far to the east of Paris, in the vast lands which Hitler had conquered in the Soviet Union, the intricate legalistic quadrille justifying the confiscations and trading would be far less subtle and “correct.” In these Slavic wastelands the National Socialist fanatics did not bother with velvet gloves. Hitler’s attack on his recent ally had, incredibly, once again been a surprise. How this could be possible, given Stalin’s equivalent cynicism about their relationship, is hard to understand. Hitler, holding true to the stated policies of Mein Kampf, had never intended to maintain the alliance for long and had initiated planning for the invasion of Russia while the French campaign was still in progress. He had hoped to attack in the East in the fall of 1940. Discouraged by his generals, he reluctantly agreed to wait until May 1941. This delay, which would be extended to late June due to Hitler’s involvement in Yugoslavia, left plenty of time for detailed planning of the future occupation of Russia, and for the development of the usual turf wars between the Nazi agencies.

  The basic policies would be the same as those applied to Poland. After conquest, areas would be cleansed, exploited, and Germanized. To achieve this, Hitler told the Wehrmacht, the war could not be conducted in a “knightly fashion.”1 The new territory, which the Führer, for the time being, envisioned as everything west of a line stretching roughly from Archangel to Stalingrad, would be divided into separate administrative districts run by Reichskommissars. In these the cleansing would again be cultural, racial, and ideological. Not only Jews and “Bolshevists” would be eliminated by immediate execution; much of the general Slavic population would be allowed to expire naturally when their food supplies were diverted to the worthier citizens of the Reich. Wehrmacht scruples shown in the West and even in Poland were diminished by constant references to these Bolshevists, despised by the conservative officer corps. The less attractive “purifying” activities at which the regular Army might balk were, as usual, entrusted to Hitler’s closest cronies.

  Goering, director of the Four-Year Economic Plan, now added exploitation of the USSR to his responsibilities. Probably because of his Baltic origins and the fact that he had studied in Moscow, the Führer appointed ERR chief Alfred Rosenberg to head the entire administration of the Eastern Territories. Rosenberg, thrilled at this recognition, immediately began producing elaborate plans for the area, which, although promoting Germanization, also recommended the preservation of certain elements of such indigenous cultures as that of the Ukraine, whose peoples he felt could be turned against their Russian rulers, and who could be useful in the extermination campaign against the Jews. Himmler, who disagreed with this soft policy, was not pleased at Rosenberg’s elevation and complained of it to Bormann. The SS chief, who had been put in charge of “special tasks” in Russia, did not wish any interference in his assignment, which he described simplistically to his troops as the elimination of all Bolshevists:

  a population of 180 million, a mixture of races, whose very names are unpronounceable, and whose physique is such that one can shoot them down without pity and compassion … welded by the Jews into one religion, one ideology….2

  In the area of security and extermination Himmler would soon prevail, but in cultural matters the two agencies would be in constant competition for the Soviet Union’s treasures. There would be no Kunstschutz here. To carry out their policies, Rosenberg and Himmler would call upon their already established Einsatzgruppen (Special Task Forces), certain of which would gain their greatest and most sinister notoriety in the vastnesses of the USSR.

  Arranging for operations in Russia was merely a matter of bureaucratic extension. There were many who were eager to volunteer. Baron von Kunsberg, late of Paris, frustrated by the Kunstschutz and disappointed by von Ribbentrop’s lack of clout, had been looking for more fertile fields for his unit (a hundred men and one dog), which had originally been set up by the Foreign Minister to secure valuable records and objects as soon as nations were taken by Germany. He had, therefore, offered his services to the Waffen SS, who were not at first enthusiastic. But as the planning for Russia progressed, the usefulness of von Kunsberg’s unit was recognized, and his services were accepted on January 26, 1941, fully six months before the invasion.3 His group was divided into four companies, three of which were assigned to the main Army Groups which would attack the USSR. The fourth was to be sent to North Africa. These commandos were to be attached to front-line SS units and would secure anything which appeared to be of value.

  After the combat phase the scholars of the SS Ahnenerbe would bring in their research institutes to collect ancient artifacts and other scienti
fic evidence of the superiority of the Germanic races and the inferiority of the Slavs. The ERR, also a noncombatant organization, planned to begin its usual confiscations of Jewish and Masonic possessions and archives and take away “all cultural goods suitable for research into the activities of the opponents of National Socialism.”

  All these operations would theoretically come under the control of Rosenberg, who warned military authorities taking over in Lithuania that they should “forbid the removal of any cultural goods by any authorities whatsoever” until ERR experts could inspect them and decide their fate. Rosenberg assigned his top assistant, Gerhard Utikal, to supervise this major undertaking. At this stage Rosenberg clearly envisioned a role for selected indigenous cultural officials, for the order ended with the comment that “the state administration of museums, libraries, etc., is not affected by this order, with the exception of the right of inspection and inventory.”4

  Goering and Linz director Posse, busy in Holland and France, did not need to concern themselves with the details of these confiscations in the East. Posse could preempt all others with a word to the Führer, and Goering, his authority in the ERR secure for the time being, could have second pick.

  The invasion began at 3:30 a.m. on June 22, 1941. Hitler followed events closely from a fancy new headquarters bunker, the Wolfschanze (Wolf’s Lair) at Rastenburg in East Prussia, built expressly for the purpose. This operation was as flawless and fast as all the others. By July 14 Hitler’s troops had taken Minsk and most of Latvia and Lithuania, advanced into the Ukraine, and reached the Luga River, less than a hundred miles from Leningrad. The Führer, confident that the inferior Slavic troops would soon cave in, even issued a directive suggesting that the size of his Army could be reduced “in the near future.”5 He was premature. Two days later at Smolensk the Red Army briefly halted the Nazi drive—a new experience for the German armies. Hitler did not consider this serious and ordered his forces to turn toward Kiev. The Army before Leningrad had also stopped because it could no longer be adequately supplied. This pause would give those in charge of protecting Russia’s great collections a little, vitally needed time.