The Rape of Europa

by Lynn H. Nicholas

  The German works arrive at the National Gallery of Art. Left to right: Walker, McBride, Merrill, Finley, Moore

  To quiet things down, the Chief Justice issued another corrective statement on December 14. But by now letters of protest to editors and the Roberts Commission were pouring in from the public and from MFAA officers in the field who were working eighteen-hour days to return the said loot to the liberated nations. Craig Smyth even sent a little album of photographs showing the adequacy of storage facilities at his Collecting Point. Andrew Ritchie called on David Finley at the Commission to mobilize the major art associations in the United States to “initiate action in Washington to correct the present unilateral procedure.”77 Lincoln Kirstein, now out of the Army, sent a letter containing the text of the Manifesto, minus signatures, to the Magazine of Art.78

  During January things escalated. After former MFAA officer Charles Kuhn published an article in the College Art Journal which also revealed the contents of the Wiesbaden document, the head of the College Art Association wrote a letter of protest to the Secretary of State saying that the integrity of the United States was in question. Roberts Commission member Paul Sachs was so angry when he read this that he resigned from the CAA, “stormed down to Washington, and aroused those morally lethargic gentlemen of the RC into cursing maledictions against all signators of the Manifesto and raising the most blood curdling din that all should be courtmartialled.”79 Francis Henry Taylor too defended the removals in a spirited comment to The New York Times. David Finley, who unbelievably had still not seen the Manifesto, could not understand that the word of the President and the Chief Justice might be doubted. The “ill founded charges of bad faith,” he stated, were an embarrassment to the government, which “is doing an act of unprecedented generosity in protecting German owned art not only for Germany but for the world.”80 The National Gallery director did not see a full copy of the Manifesto until February, and then only because it was sent to him by the editor of the Magazine of Art. In his letter of acknowledgment Finley wrote that he had been “curious to see the text.”81

  General Clay only heard of the controversy when his houseguest, Eleanor Roosevelt, visiting Germany in her capacity as journalist, asked him about the fuss in the press, and in particular about the Wiesbaden Manifesto, which, of course, he had not seen. This caused a certain amount of “harrumphing around.” Bancel LaFarge was called on the carpet, but told Clay that the Manifesto had saved the Army from “being confronted with some 32 MFAA officers to be court-martialled.” Fortunately no serving officer had leaked the document, and LaFarge, determined to defend his people from punitive action, took all responsibility on himself, writing to Thomas Howe, “I shall do it gleefully, and tell them so.” In this no-win situation the general took no action.

  The controversy simmered through the spring, fueled by the subsidiary question of the propriety of exhibiting the paintings to the public, and reached its apogee in May, when ninety-five art historians led by Juliana Force and Frederick Clapp, directors of the Whitney and the Frick, respectively, addressed a passionate petition to President Truman saying that many, including the Germans themselves, “may find it hard to distinguish between the resultant situation and the ‘protective custody’ of the Nazis.” They had finally gone too far. Congresswoman Frances Bolton read all the previous government statements guaranteeing return of the works into the Congressional Record. The Washington Post called the petition an “absurd accusation” and said that the Army deserved high praise for its salvage of the works, adding, somewhat ungrammatically, that there “would be no vandalism in permitting Americans to see and draw inspiration from these great heritages of the past.”82

  But the Army and the Commission had had enough publicity for the time being. Against Clay’s wishes, they agreed that the pictures should not be shown until “the integrity of our intentions can no longer be disputed,” i.e., until after it had been announced that they were about to be shipped back.83 For now the “202,” as they had been dubbed, stayed in seclusion in the air-conditioned vaults of the National Gallery of Art. The illogical and convoluted workings of American democracy had had their effect: there was no question of any further shipment of works belonging to German museums to the United States.

  For years all those involved in this controversy remained bitter, and to this day those who were in the field, and who indeed were not privy to the political machinations now revealed in the archives, fall back into their passionate belief that the officers of the National Gallery engineered the transfer of the art to fill in the vast empty spaces of their new museum. Francis Henry Taylor, quoted as declaring more than once that “we should get something out of this war,” is also not regarded as innocent. The evidence does not support this view. There is, however, plenty of evidence that Treasury officials supported such a concept, and that the “pushing” of the arts people for more personnel and materials had convinced Clay, at the time of Potsdam, that he could not guarantee the safety of the rescued collections. It is equally clear that once the policy had been decreed, the National Gallery accepted the stewardship of the pictures and the possibility of an unprecedented exhibition with alacrity, as any museum would. The beginning of the Cold War did not make it impossible that the pictures might stay in Washington for a very long time, an additionally pleasant prospect.

  John Walker and Francis Taylor were, in fact, extremely interested in acquiring certain other German-owned works. This Walker showed early on by his queries about the Czernin Vermeer, and by notations in the diary of his 1945 trip to the German repositories, especially Berchtesgaden, where the Goering collection was being processed. As was his habit, he made lists of the works he saw, with brief comments next to the titles. Next to certain works bought by Goering from Fischer in Lucerne he wrote a little “NG” for National Gallery. The five Cranachs and one Lochner so indicated would certainly have filled gaps at the Gallery. Further on he commented: “Those coming from Swiss dealers, I feel need not be returned.”84 A year after Potsdam, Walker returned to Europe. From London he wrote Finley, who was encouraging him to try to see General Clay over the disposition of the photographic archives at Marburg, “Perhaps a more important reason to see Clay would be to try and get some of the Goering collection bought in Switzerland and from Contini in Italy. None of those paintings and sculptures should go back to their countries of origin. And some of the works of art are very fine. These should be put at our disposal for the benefit of the American Museums.”85 In this he would be disappointed.

  Meanwhile, the 202, in their sequestered storage area, were a terrible temptation, even to those who most vehemently opposed their presence. For various reasons of curiosity and nostalgia they came to have a secret peek at the pictures, still under the care of Lamont Moore, their curator since the dissolution of the RC in June 1946. Lincoln Kirstein came with Chrisopher Isherwood, as did fellow Monuments officer Edith Standen and Sotheby’s Peter Wilson. From time to time a request for exhibition would surface and be suppressed by the Army, fearful of another explosion of public opinion. Rumors of possible showings brought forth pleading letters from other American museums longing to get an exhibition for themselves.

  In October 1946, eager to be rid of their controversial charges, the Army had cabled Clay to see if the paintings could be returned. But the general was still unwilling to turn them over to the Russians, in whose zone the Kaiser Friedrich Museum stood, and equally unwilling to give the Soviets grounds for protest by keeping the works in Wiesbaden. He recommended instead that they be put on show in Washington, and that a public statement be made that they would stay on show until a “responsible German government has been formed to receive them.”86 This the War Department was not brave enough to do. It was not until January 1948 that action was forced upon them.

  Clay, surprised by a State Department announcement that it would soon replace the Army as the governor of Germany, told his wife to start sending home their clothes and began tidying up outstanding pro
blems in preparation for his departure. On the thirty-first he cabled the War Department that the German paintings should be returned without publicity to Munich and Wiesbaden before he left. Relations with the Russians were now so bad that he no longer worried about upsetting them. (Indeed, only weeks later they began the series of maneuvers which would culminate in the Berlin Blockade, and keep Clay in Germany for another year and a half.) The State Department, mindful of Congresswoman Bolton and others’ desire that the works be shown to the American public, cabled back, “If they are returned to Germany without prior exhibition in Washington we anticipate renewal campaign of criticism.”87 Amazed at this complete gyration, Clay, who had long advised a show and long been refused, retorted that it now seemed much too late to show the 202 at home, and pointed out the propaganda value their return would have in Germany, but consented to a quick exhibition accompanied by a firm announcement that they were being sent back.88

  Congressional interest at first was limited to a special meeting of a subcommittee of the Senate Armed Services Committee headed by Wayne Morse of Oregon, to “have available to any one interested the reasons why these art treasures are being returned to Germany.” The Army witnesses cited the White House statement, The Hague Convention of 1907, the Rules of Land Warfare, and Clay’s assurances that the pictures could now be cared for. The Senate was satisfied.89

  The Army now asked the National Gallery to hang the pictures immediately “for a reasonable amount of time”—about a month. The museum, given virtually no notice, hastily began preparations for the exhibition, which was scheduled to open March 17, 1948. There was no time to plan a fancy opening, but Finley did write a personal letter to Truman inviting him to see “the most important exhibition of paintings from European Museums ever shown in this country.” There was no time for a catalogue either, and a simple checklist with the careful title “Paintings from the Berlin Museums Exhibited at the Request of the Department of the Army” quickly went to press. Newspapers and magazines supplied plenty of publicity. From the beginning the journalists favored extending the exhibition beyond the paltry four weeks planned in Washington. At the very least, it was felt, they could be shown at the Metropolitan in New York, whence the pictures would be shipped back to Germany. Many charged that the collection was being virtually handed to the Russians. Pressure mounted from interested museums. But the Army was determined to avoid all risks and ship the pictures back on schedule.

  No one was prepared for the incredible popularity of the show. The opening day drew 8,390 visitors to the exhibition, which was guarded by a special contingent of MPs in spiffy full dress. On the following Sunday, an unheard-of 35,593 were counted. By the end of the first week the total was 109,779; by April 1 the quarter-of-a-million mark had long been passed. The newspapers kept a running count. Letters to editors and Congressmen piled up from citizens demanding to see the pictures. Many pointed out that two other shows, one of equally prestigious refugee works from Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches and another of French tapestries, were already circulating in Europe and on their way to the United States. There was even a letter supporting further display in America from the editor of the Berlin Tagespiel, the largest German daily, who, after seeing the show in Washington, wrote that a tour across the country would promote better understanding. At the same time, the Communist takeover of Czechoslovakia exacerbated anti-Soviet feeling. By April 2 pressure to show these treasures to the rest of the United States was so strong that Senator William Fulbright introduced a bill suggesting an American tour, with entrance fees for the benefit of a UNICEF fund for the prevention of tuberculosis among German children. Upon hearing of this, Clay angrily wrote back that much publicity had already been given in Germany to the return of the pictures, and that “any failure to return these articles now would be interpreted as an intent on our part to retain the items and in addition, would play directly into the hands of the Communists with their constantly reiterated propaganda of American exploitation.”90

  The “202” on view: the National Gallery’s first blockbuster

  But these comments were completely overshadowed by the publicity blitz at home. The show had by now become the most “in” thing to do. Ingrid Bergman came and stayed for three hours. On the fifth of April, 62,983 visitors, twice the capacity of the Washington Senators’ home stadium, were counted, and a small unexpected group consisting of President Truman and his guards were not. Truman carefully said that the collection should be returned “as soon as it was safe to do so.” Meanwhile, exhausted Gallery staff coped with more and more VIP visitors who were determined not to miss the art event of the season, and who were squeezed in alongside whole touring families fresh from viewing the cherry blossoms. Mrs. Henry Ford took a special train from Detroit. John D. Rockefeller and Lady Astor were given a quiet lunch at David Finley’s house after pushing through the mobs. The Duke of Windsor, arriving the day before the show was due to close, cabled to see if he could still see it. He could. The exhibition was extended an extra week. Final attendance would be close to 1 million.

  On April 17 the Armed Services Committee held a second hearing. The Army, still desirous of returning its charges and keeping its word in Germany, now resorted to the principles stated in the mutinous Wiesbaden Manifesto to defend its point of view. The Army was backed by the State Department but refuted by former ambassador William Bullitt, who described western Germany as a “danger zone with the Red Army at its gates” and the Soviet government as determined to conquer the world for Communism. The Senators, somewhat puzzled by the fuss, suggested asking the Germans themselves for approval. The National Gallery witnesses, utterly dependent on Congress for operating funds, would not take a stand, although John Walker came closest to outright disapproval of a tour by quoting the Gallery’s own policy against lending any of its panel pictures. He was eclipsed by Perry Rathbone of the St. Louis Museum and a team from the Met, armed with reams of statistics and charts of how many things they had shown and moved since 1938 without damage, who pointed out that passage of the bill would enable the entire Middle West and some 12.5 million people in Greater New York to see the show. It was all over. The people had spoken, and the bill never came to a vote.

  General Clay, who was now dealing with a semi-blockade of Berlin by the Russians and who had in fact sounded out German officials (who did not object to the tour), felt that an Act of Congress would be a bad precedent. He proposed that the 202 be exhibited “at the suggestion and with the approval of the Armed Services Committee, based on recommendations of the Military Governor after consultation with representative Germans” and be sent back in a number of separate shipments every few months.91

  Fifty-two of the most fragile pictures, all on panel, were returned immediately. The rest, under military guard at all times and escorted by German curators, would slowly progress around the United States, visiting New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, Boston, Detroit, Cleveland, Minneapolis, San Francisco, Los Angeles, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, and Toledo. Because of “adverse climatic conditions,” the Deep South lost out.

  Fifty-four pictures left after Boston, and the rest sailed from New York on April 22, 1949, again escorted by Comdr. Keith Merrill, who had helped bring them over in 1945. Some 10 million people had seen them, and several hundred thousand dollars was raised for German children, who wrote touching thank-you notes to the various participating institutions. There was no damage to any of the pictures, which rejoined the rest of the Berlin collections in Wiesbaden on May 4. While they had been travelling in the New World the Berlin Airlift had come and gone, but they would not return home until 1955, and then to the Dahlem Museum in the United States sector, not to the shattered Museum Island, which now lay behind the Iron Curtain.

  Craig Smyth, director of the Munich Collecting Point, with U.S. and foreign officers. Left to right: Marcelle Minet, France; Craig Smyth; H. de Bry, France (back); Alphonse Vorenkamp, Holland; Doda Conrad, U.S.; Raymond Lemaire, Belgium; Charles Parkhurst. U.S.: and Pierre-Loui
s Duchartre. France

  XIII

  THE ART OF THE POSSIBLE

  Fifty Years of Restitution and Recovery

  The 202 German-owned paintings that had come to America and caused such a fuss were, of course, only an infinitesimal percentage of the millions of displaced works which continued to be discovered daily by Allied forces. There was no controversy over what should be done with the things which had been taken “by seizure or without compensation from the overrun countries.” They were to be returned to those countries, but just how was not so simple. In the West, liberated since the summer of 1944, there was, by the time of the German surrender, considerable agitation by the various recuperation committees for immediate action. Indeed, the director of the Belgian museums, Dr. van Puyvelde (who had spent the entire war in England in scholarly pursuits, and whose only military experience had been a few Sunday drills in Brussels’ Grand Place in World War I, but who had, to the considerable amusement of his colleagues, arrived home dressed in the battle dress of a full colonel), had commandeered a convoy of twenty-five trucks and without any authorizations headed for Germany to retrieve the Ghent altarpiece.1 This incursion was not well received by either Posey at Alt Aussee or Rorimer at Heilbronn, both of whom were still desperately trying to secure the works for which they were responsible and who in any case could not simply hand them over. The Belgians were thus forced to retreat empty-handed. (At about the same time Rose Valland, also sporting a uniform and the rank of captain, but less well equipped when it came to transportation, was refused access to Neuschwanstein, where she too arrived unheralded to check the confiscated French collections.) Van Puyvelde’s visit got a flurry of publicity in the press and inspired the Poles to ask the London office of the RC for similar “SHAEF permits.”2