Hertz’s alleged unwillingness to conduct “The Star-Spangled Banner,” after leading a rousing performance of Beethoven’s Ninth, precipitated a hue and cry across the city. While Hertz was offstage between bows, a local official imagined it would be a good idea for the mainly German crowd to demonstrate their loyalty by singing the patriotic hymn. He whispered to the concertmaster that the piece should be played. After an uncomfortable silence, the violinist sprang from his seat to save the day, or so he thought, by leading the beloved tune. When Hertz reappeared for another bow, he saw that the orchestra was playing the piece—under the concertmaster’s direction. It appeared that Hertz had been unwilling to lead the composition, which was not the case.129
As a result, the conductor’s reputation was tarnished for a time, a development exacerbated by his decision, on the festival’s final concert, to perform Wagner’s Kaisermarsch, a piece commemorating Germany’s 1871 triumph in the Franco-Prussian War, a choice some attributed to his support for the current German leader, Wilhelm II.130 These two episodes did little to endear Hertz to certain members of the San Francisco Symphony’s board, who were already inclined to see him as overly devoted to Germany, a feeling strengthened by a report from Hertz’s ex-valet, who claimed the conductor had been thrilled when the Lusitania was sunk.131 Beyond that, Hertz’s German citizenship had caused some to question his fidelity to the United States.132 Worse still, concerns over Hertz’s supposedly questionable behavior entered the local conversation, with troublemakers writing to the Justice Department about the musician’s allegedly disloyal activities. These included his purported (but false) participation in a local enemy spy ring, his membership in the Austrian army, and his habit of flying the German flag from the fender of his motorcar, as well as, most ridiculously, his penchant for buying German butter at the local grocery store, rather than the genuine American article.133
Ultimately, two board members who had wanted the conductor dismissed, resigned.134 They doubted, as did others in the Bay Area, Hertz’s fidelity to the Allied cause, though it was also true that they had favored another candidate to lead the orchestra. As for Hertz’s questionable patriotism, one disgruntled board member asserted that it had been foolish to hire someone who was clearly “pro-German.”135 While an investigation by the board established that Hertz had been unaware of the problematic performance of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” as he had repeatedly maintained, the conductor continued to have his detractors.136 But he persevered and over the next few years, San Franciscans came to admire his work, including, ironically, his stirring renditions of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”137
Beyond Hertz’s early troubles, with America’s entry into the war in 1917, the push to restrict orchestral music would come to plague Hertz’s group. In August 1918, the board decided the music of Wagner and of living German composers would be eliminated from the orchestra’s repertoire.138 Not until after the war would San Franciscans again hear the music of Wagner and Richard Strauss.139
The music communities in many American cities—New York, Chicago, Minneapolis, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and, as we shall see, Boston, Cincinnati, and Pittsburgh—were riven by wartime tensions. And episodes in other settings suggest that few places escaped the anti-German fever. In Oshkosh, Wisconsin, the Wisconsin Music Teachers’ Association unanimously adopted a resolution in May 1918 condemning the employment of foreign music teachers in wartime.140 A few months later, the musicians’ union in St. Louis suspended and then expelled seven members because they were enemy aliens. As had happened to his relative Bruno Steindel in Chicago, Max Steindel, the superb principal cellist in the St. Louis Symphony, was ousted before the start of the 1918–1919 season.141 In the fall of 1918, the Kansas City Musical Club, the city’s largest women’s musical organization, resolved that its members would neither perform nor teach music composed by Germans.142
Illustrating how the war shaped musical life in out-of-the-way places, one of the country’s most distinguished ensembles, the Philadelphia Orchestra, dropped Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony and other German works from its season-opening concert in Wilmington, Delaware, in November 1917, and replaced them with Russian selections.143 And finally, that irrepressible New Yorker, Lucie Jay, directed her torrid anti-Germanism against the small New England communities of Newport, Rhode Island, and Bar Harbor, Maine, where she worked to ban performances of German music in public concerts and private homes.144
Whether one performed at Carnegie Hall or the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, at Orchestra Hall in Chicago, or with a classical ensemble at a smart California hotel, the war’s impact was inescapable. German music, or some of it, was perceived as something to fear, revile, and, ultimately, to silence, particularly after the American people began to experience the suffering brought on by the Teutonic war machine. Proscribing music was one consequence of the emotional torment unleashed by the war and a manifestation of the unsavory passions that grappling with Germany had forced to the surface of American life. But worse transgressions loomed.
CHAPTER TWO
“It Would Be a Gross Mistake to Play Patriotic Airs”
Locking Up the Maestros
“I DO NOT THINK THAT a symphony ever created a more profound impression than this upon [the] thousands who had probably never heard classical music before,” recalled a violinist who participated in what was surely the era’s most unusual performance of Beethoven’s Eroica. Conducted by Prisoner 1337, the camp orchestra at Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, offered a memorable concert on December 12, 1918, for some four thousand Germans who had been incarcerated by the United States government because they were either military prisoners of war or civilian enemy aliens. Since arriving at the camp the previous April, Prisoner 1337, who fell into the latter category, had spent most of his time mending shoes and working in the prison’s metal shop. On this single occasion, however, he would conduct the estimable camp orchestra, an ensemble comprising some fifty gifted musicians, in an evening concert that began with Brahms’s Academic Festival Overture and concluded with the Beethoven.1
Why this excellent band of internees convened on a December evening in a Georgia prison camp to be led by one of the most esteemed conductors in the world is one of the more intriguing musical tales of the war years. It is also worth recalling that after concluding this memorable performance, which listeners and participants described in reverential terms, Prisoner 1337 would never again stand before an ensemble in the United States. According to an accomplished German scientist who attended the rehearsals and the concert, the conductor’s impact on the group was profound. “Even at the very first rehearsal, the orchestra . . . was an entirely different ensemble from what it had been under the leadership” of the other conductors who had directed it, some of whom were quite distinguished. Never again would the group reach the same “artistic height,” the scientist claimed.2 Despite the overwhelming response of his fellow internees, Maestro Karl Muck, until recently the conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, avoided the podium for the rest of his days in prison, choosing, instead, to channel his energies into other less exalted endeavors until his release and deportation in August 1919, nine months after the war was over.3
If the anti-German sentiment that swept across the American landscape during the war debased the cultural life of many cities, two places, one in the Midwest and the other in the East, would be hit especially hard by the conflict’s irrational fury. Blessed with exceptionally fine symphony orchestras, Cincinnati and Boston would experience the consequences of uncontrolled xenophobia and hypernationalism, which tore at the fabric of cultural life in both communities and upended the lives of two musicians.
Unrestrained bigotry, exacerbated by the bloodshed overseas, drove the US government and the American people to embrace the idea that German residents were inclined to engage in treacherous behavior. And the power of musical nationalism led thousands of ordinary people to believe that allowing the two maestros to continue to perform would contamin
ate the nation’s cultural and political life, and threaten the safety of its people.
When America entered the war in 1917, the ensemble that graced the stage at the Music Hall in Cincinnati was one of the country’s finest. Its conductor, the highly regarded Ernst Kunwald, born in Vienna in 1868, had taken the reins of the orchestra in 1912 after leaving his position at the Berlin Philharmonic, which he had conducted with distinction. When Kunwald arrived in the “Queen City” two years before the start of the war, there was a palpable sense of goodwill and enthusiasm among the local musical establishment for the conductor and his wife Lina, a former opera singer. Cultural leaders across the city, which had more than 350,000 residents, one-third of whom were either born in Germany or had at least one German-born parent, were grateful to have such an extraordinary musician heading their excellent ensemble.4 Those who followed such things were charmed by the couple’s desire to improve their English, though the maestro already spoke the language rather well.5
Ernst Kunwald
Kunwald’s early years with the orchestra, which was founded in 1895, were marked by superb performances, stellar reviews, and a widely shared sense in Cincinnati and elsewhere that the Austrian musician and his men were achieving all anyone had hoped for. In early 1917, just a few months before the United States went to war, Kunwald brought his orchestra east, where the ensemble garnered gushing notices. Offering New Yorkers Wagner, Beethoven, and Richard Strauss, Kunwald’s forces provided “a stupendous virtuoso achievement,” which displayed the keen bond between the conductor and his musicians. After the last note of Strauss’ Sinfonia Domestica had sounded, those in attendance could not contain their wild enthusiasm and they “fêted” the players and their leader like “veritable musical conquerors.” Indeed, the conductor was recalled a dozen times by the adoring crowd.6 Later that month, when Kunwald’s portrait appeared on the cover of the Musical Courier, he was described as a man who was playing a critical role in America’s musical development. The journal hoped the orchestra would “hold him in this country for many years, and permanently, if possible.”7 Neither the writer nor Kunwald knew that such wishes contained more than a touch of prophecy, though the maestro would have been displeased had he foreseen the manner in which, just a few months later, he would be “held” in the United States.8
With the country at war, Cincinnati’s 1917–1918 concert season was set to begin in late October. German music would be played on a regular basis and Kunwald would lead “The Star-Spangled Banner” at every concert. A few days before the season began, Kunwald spoke to the press, noting, while he wished to express his views on the war, the orchestra’s management had asked him not to discuss “political subjects.” The Austrian said he had been invited to Cincinnati to lead the orchestra and to serve as a musician. The question of American citizenship was not something he had ever thought about, Kunwald said, pointing out that he had worked for twenty years in Germany and had never considered renouncing his Austrian citizenship. As he was nearly fifty, it was late in life to “adopt a new country.” Speaking about the American people, Kunwald claimed a political event such as the war could not change his “feelings of gratitude and sympathy.” Despite reports to the contrary, he said he was not in the Austrian reserves and asserted that he would not serve in that country’s armed forces even if his government requested it. His military obligation had ended in 1910, and American law shielded him from military service to Austria.9 Beyond that, as Kunwald pointed out, despite his “sentimental attachment” to Austria, “the people of Cincinnati are dear to me, and I want to remain here.”10
The season opened with Kunwald conducting Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, and Brahms, all enthusiastically received. Soldiers from a local fort, guests of the orchestra, were in attendance, and flags were arranged throughout the concert hall. Just before the intermission, the patriotic atmosphere was enhanced by the performance of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” described by one newspaper as a “glorious orchestral outpouring.”11 The previous spring, after the country entered the war, Kunwald had suggested to the orchestra’s president that the piece should be performed at every concert, a practice that was soon adopted.12 Along with reporting on the brilliant opening concert, the press pointed out that the orchestra had shown its loyalty by purchasing nearly $11,000 in war bonds. In keeping with growing concern about the allegiance of orchestral musicians, many of whom were foreigners, it was noted that the men in the orchestra, even those born overseas, were American citizens. And the newest members had all begun the citizenship process.13
A few weeks after the season began, the orchestra offered one of its frequent out-of-town concerts, this one in Springfield, Ohio, seventy-five miles from Cincinnati. The performance received glowing reviews, and during an interview with local reporters, Kunwald shared his thoughts on the relationship between music and the war. “I have not noticed any lull in the enthusiasm for music because of the war,” he said, noting the orchestra had been warmly received wherever it played. According to Kunwald, he strongly opposed playing pieces by living Germans during the war, though he did not support banning the works of all Germanic composers, claiming it would be pointless to proscribe music by Mozart, Beethoven, and other celebrated figures. While he thought the war would provide an opportunity to hear pieces by composers from the United States and other allied countries, Kunwald stressed that the music “should make its appeal rather than the composer. It is the music that lives,” he said. “The composer dies.”14
On November 21, 1917, one day before the Cincinnati Symphony was scheduled to perform in Pittsburgh, the city’s director of public safety, Charles S. Hubbard, announced that Kunwald would not be allowed to conduct his orchestra the next evening. The decision, part of an intensely nationalistic policy in Pittsburgh barring public performances by enemy aliens, also banned all music composed by Germans and the allies of Germany until the end of the war. Hubbard explained his reasoning in a public statement, asserting, as long as he held his position, no “alien enemy” would be permitted to produce a concert. “I do not say that they are all spies, but most of them are.” According to Hubbard, the money such performers received from their appearances was likely sent back to their native countries, a possibility the Pittsburgh ban would preclude. “War, in regard to alien enemies in this city, will be just what Sherman said it was.”15
Pittsburgh officials had made inquiries about Kunwald’s status in the Austrian reserve and about whether he was a naturalized American citizen (he was neither in the reserve nor a naturalized citizen). Not wishing to disappoint Pittsburgh’s music lovers, the city decided to allow the Cincinnati concert to go on, though Kunwald would be prohibited from taking the stage and no German music could be played. Insisting Kunwald had served faithfully, the orchestra’s administration rejected the offer out of hand. It would not allow someone else to lead the ensemble. Orchestra administrators claimed that barring Kunwald from conducting on account of his past connection with the Austrian army was “an absurdity.” When asked to comment, Kunwald said little, noting that so much had happened since the start of the war, and that he had promised the directors of the orchestra not to speak about the conflict.16
Not surprisingly, the Pittsburgh controversy engendered considerable comment in the Cincinnati press. A thought-provoking editorial in the Enquirer asserted that “[j]ingoism is not patriotism.” The editors wondered whether it was right for Americans to listen to Beethoven and Wagner or to read Schiller and Goethe. Not to do so, they argued, would be “the height of folly.” The country had “no quarrel with the true, the good [and] the beautiful things of life,” and the piece reminded readers that America was battling a “tyrannical” government that aimed “to destroy those very things.” It would be tragic if, in trying to defeat Germany, the United States embraced the values it was fighting to quash.17
In the next act of the Kunwald drama, Annie Sinton Taft, the orchestra’s president, issued a statement that the conductor, not wishing to harm the e
nsemble, had earlier presented a letter of resignation, which the administration had turned down. Taft was clear about Kunwald’s achievements, pointing to his “genius” and “loyalty” to Cincinnati. His departure would deal a severe blow to the orchestra, now one of the country’s best. Should Kunwald step down, she asserted, the ensemble’s inevitable decline would injure “every educational interest in the city.”18
While it seemed this might signal the end of the matter, the Kunwald affair was far from over. Just one day after the cancelled concert in Pittsburgh, the small town of Chillicothe, Ohio, seventy-five miles east of Cincinnati, was set to host the ensemble. Orchestra officials considered calling off the Chillicothe event, but the local organizing committee expressed no reservations about having Kunwald conduct whatever he wished.19
At the Elks’ Auditorium, before an enthusiastic audience that included a number of soldiers, the concert went off without a hitch. Kunwald conducted music by Wagner, Handel, Dvořák, Tchaikovsky, and Thomas, along with some American pieces and “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Unlike in Pittsburgh, there were no problems in the Ohio town, where the local newspaper said fine music was the “common property of the world.” The editors commended those who had organized the local music series for transcending the “smaller forms of hate.”20 At intermission, reporters asked Kunwald about the Pittsburgh incident. He discussed the trouble caused by his Austrian citizenship, saying he would not consider becoming an American citizen. He refused to “repudiate” his country as a matter of convenience, asking, “What would you think of an American citizen in Germany or Austria, who . . . renounce[d] the United States. . . ? No true American would respect him.”21
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