Back in Cincinnati, while there was strong support for Kunwald among the orchestra’s administration, concerns emerged among subscribers, some of whom were increasingly uncomfortable about retaining the services of an “enemy alien.” According to stories in the local papers, some subscribers believed that when his contract expired at the end of the 1917–1918 season, it should not be renewed.22
On December 7, 1917, the US Congress declared war on Austria-Hungary, making Kunwald a citizen of a belligerent country. According to regulation twelve of President Wilson’s Proclamation 1364 of April 6, 1917, an enemy alien, which was now Kunwald’s status, was liable to “summary arrest” if there was “reasonable cause to believe” that the alien is “aiding or about to aid the enemy,” or may endanger “the public peace or safety, or [may] violate or attempt to violate” a presidential regulation or any US law. The next day, a United States marshal arrested Kunwald in Cincinnati and hauled him off to a Dayton jail, where he was charged with violating regulation twelve. Kunwald, who would spend the night in the county jail, denied he had done anything wrong, saying his conscience was clear. “I have never said or done anything disloyal or offensive to this country. . . . They have treated me splendidly.” Before becoming a musician, Kunwald said, he had been a lawyer, noting, “I have been loyal to the laws here. Of course, I am also a loyal subject of my own country.”23
It was difficult to paint Kunwald as a dangerous figure. Artistic achievement, cooperation with his musicians and management, and commitment to the community had been the hallmarks of his tenure. As he was being charged by US Marshals, he asked if he could place a telephone call to his wife. “We have no children,” he told the sheriff. She will be all alone, and it is “hard for a woman to be alone.” Later, when the conductor’s baggage was searched, his wife’s picture was taken from his hand. With his eyes welling up with tears, he told the sheriff, “I always carry her picture with me.”24 Later that night, in the nation’s capital, the attorney general claimed he was completely unfamiliar with the case. This was surprising, since earlier that day, it was reported that the arrest had been made as a result of a telegram sent by Attorney General Gregory to the US marshal in Ohio.25
One day after being taken into custody, Kunwald was released by order of the Justice Department. The Austrian was freed pending “further investigation,” which would be undertaken by special agents in the area. It was also reported that Kunwald had been paroled on the understanding that he would remain inactive professionally for the duration of the war. The conductor returned home, where he had Sunday dinner with his wife and some friends.26 Kunwald’s attorney, the former Ohio governor, said the conductor would remain in Cincinnati. The symphony board was scheduled to meet the next day to discuss his fate, even as a representative of the ensemble had been sent to New York to look into securing his successor.27
On Monday afternoon, the board of directors of the Cincinnati Symphony accepted the resignation of their conductor. Kunwald would be replaced, if only temporarily, by an Englishman, Walter Henry Rothwell. When asked to comment, Kunwald was terse: “I am no longer the orchestra director. I am in private life. Do you not understand that? I am in the custody of my attorney. What can I say? Nothing.”28 The Austrian indicated he would remain in the city until at least May, when the lease on his house expired. “I like Cincinnati and there is no better place for me to go.” Kunwald noted that he had offered his resignation several weeks earlier and had been grateful the board rejected it, though he had recognized circumstances might compel them to change their mind.29 Those circumstances had arisen. Ernst Kunwald would never again lead a professional orchestra in the United States.
While the reasons for Kunwald’s arrest were not entirely clear, reports began to trickle out about the conductor’s intemperate, anti-American language, which was heard on several occasions. One report claimed Kunwald had made remarks against the United States government and President Wilson at a Cincinnati dinner party. It was said that he had declared he would kill the president, if ordered to do so by his emperor. And some were said to have heard Kunwald speak disdainfully about performing America’s “national airs,” which he had regularly included on his programs.30
In Washington, according to an account in the Cincinnati Commercial Tribune, Assistant Attorney General O’Brian indicated that Kunwald’s arrest was made for “precautionary reasons,” though the government possessed no concrete evidence against him. It was noted that some time back, charges had been filed with the Justice Department against Kunwald related to his loyalty to the United States, though as an Austrian citizen, he was under no obligation to demonstrate such loyalty. It was also revealed that allegations of this kind had been brought to the Justice Department against many people, and the department decided it would be prudent to arrest and release all such accused persons, so they could easily be apprehended in the future, if necessary. According to the story, Kunwald’s arrest and release into the custody of his attorney would allow the government to know what he was doing. Significantly, the press report stated, while Kunwald had been arrested and held overnight, the Justice Department had no “evidence of importance” against him.31 Nevertheless, a special dispatch made to the Cincinnati Enquirer said the Justice Department had gathered information against Kunwald over the previous six months, including his threatening comment about the president. In the case of “suspected persons,” the dispatch noted, “the Government cannot wait until they commit actual depredations before arresting them, but must seize the individuals to prevent the . . . act” and conduct an investigation later. While the government did not expect anything serious to occur, it made clear that Kunwald’s arrest was no “bluff.” If the ongoing investigation suggested a need for further action, the government would not hesitate to turn him over to the military.32
With the end of the Kunwald era, press accounts suggest that both city and orchestra were ready to move on. There was little desire to reflect upon what had happened. Whether Kunwald had been treated fairly seemed unimportant to those concerned about the orchestra and the city’s musical life. A Cincinnati Post editorial spoke of the fear that, sans Kunwald, the ensemble would deteriorate. While the Austrian had improved the orchestra, the “completed instrument” was ready “for another’s hands.” All would be fine.33 As the city awaited the arrival of Rothwell, Kunwald’s name disappeared from the pages of the local papers.34 But if the city wished to forget him, unfolding events would make that impossible.
About a month after Kunwald’s resignation, the US government issued orders for his arrest, which was carried out on January 12, 1918. Taken from his home by a US marshal, he was sent first to Fort Thomas, Kentucky, and then moved to Fort Oglethorpe, Georgia, where he would spend the remainder of the war, incarcerated along with other enemy aliens.35 Upon his arrest, Kunwald spoke little, noting that he had said what needed to be said when he was arrested the first time. Nevertheless, he observed, as a “loyal subject of his beloved Emperor,” he had no complaint to make, though he did remark, “I think it the greatest shame that has been put upon this country.” His arrest was tragic for Cincinnati’s musical life, he added. Failing to grasp the depth of American xenophobia, he suggested his professional success had created jealousy, which had led to his seizure.36
The government offered no explanation as to why the musician had been taken into custody, though it was reported that internment required no specific charges and that enemy aliens could be arrested on “general suspicion.” An enemy alien, once interned, could not make a legal appeal for release, but could be freed only at the discretion of the president.37 While the government said little about Kunwald’s plight, the press speculated he had been offered a conducting position in Vienna, which, it was claimed, had been proffered in exchange for his “services in America,” though the nature of those “services” was not explained. The claim persisted that Kunwald had made remarks hostile to the United States, which became known to members of the orchestra, who then
brought his comments to the attention of government officials.38 One Cincinnati paper reported that Kunwald had been shadowed by secret service “sleuths,” who attended numerous social gatherings where the conductor had engaged in “too much talk,” which a government dispatch called “unbecoming a guest of the United States.” Again the story popped up that Kunwald had called President Wilson a “fool who ought to be killed,” and declared “he would be glad if the Kaiser” asked him to do so.39
For the next year and a half, Ernst Kunwald—prisoner number 721—would be incarcerated at Fort Oglethorpe in Georgia, along with some four thousand other German-speaking enemy aliens, a group that included diplomats, businessmen, cultural and intellectual leaders, scientists, artists, and musicians. Unlike Karl Muck, Kunwald contributed to the rich musical life of the camp, where he helped organize and sometimes conducted the camp’s orchestra, a talented collection of players, many of whom had been professional musicians.40 Every morning, Kunwald got his exercise by walking through the prison grounds, where he would spend the next eighteen months.41 He departed for Austria in June 1919, more than six months after the war ended.42
Before turning from Cincinnati, we should touch on the post-Kunwald period, when the orchestra and the city’s musical community engaged a new cultural leader whose task was to maintain the extraordinary momentum the deposed maestro had generated over the preceding five years. Who could possibly replace the esteemed Kunwald?
That the war, the orchestra’s fate, and the quality of civic life were entangled in the minds of Cincinnatians is suggested by the numerous tributes to the ensemble that appeared in the Cincinnati Times-Star on January 12, 1918, the day Kunwald was taken into custody. In one front-page offering, Mayor John Galvin spoke of the orchestra’s importance to the city in wartime. Calling the symphony “a symbol of harmony,” he said that at the present moment of “discord,” the soul turned toward music. The ensemble was crucial, Galvin insisted, because music was capable of producing an “uplifting” effect. Educators and business leaders weighed in, with some considering music’s unifying power. The head of the chamber of commerce said city residents should “cherish” their orchestra, for in wartime, music could inspire the people to accomplish the nation’s crucial “tasks.”43
Given such sentiments, the arrival in April 1918 of Eugène Ysaÿe, who would conduct Cincinnati’s orchestra, was an auspicious event. Born in Liège, Belgium, in 1858, Ysaÿe had long been one of the world’s great violinists, though worsening health problems had recently caused his playing to deteriorate. Despite this, he was revered throughout Europe and the United States. Also admired as a gifted conductor, Ysaÿe was invited to Cincinnati in the spring of 1918 to lead the orchestra as a guest. Conducting the city’s superb ensemble, he led a highly successful concert series.44 In addition to his extraordinary musicianship, that he had fled his Belgian homeland in the wake of the German invasion of 1914 made Ysaÿe a compelling figure. This lent moral weight to his presence in the American concert hall, especially once the United States entered the war. According to press accounts, Ysaÿe and his family had suffered mightily at the hands of the Germans: One son had died in combat and the musician’s two homes had been destroyed. When he reached Cincinnati that April, Ysaÿe’s wife and her family were still refugees in southern France, and it was reported that his brother, a pianist and composer, had recently died there as a refugee.45
Before the second half of his opening concert, Ysaÿe spoke briefly to the audience, offering remarks that led to lusty cheers. Seeking to enlist their financial support for the war effort, the conductor noted that the government had now begun the third “Loan for Freedom” initiative. “Allow me, as a Belgian, to express to you my grateful admiration for what you are doing to render to my country its independence and to the world its liberty,” he declared. As one publication observed, it was a day “music lovers” would long remember.46 And no one needed reminding that for all Maestro Kunwald’s gifts, Cincinnatians would never have heard such sentiments from their erstwhile conductor.
Less than a week after Ysaÿe’s triumphant concerts in Cincinnati, the board asked him to become the full-time maestro for what was said to be the largest salary ever paid to a conductor in the United States.47 Jubilation ran through the city’s cultural circles. Accepting the board’s offer, Ysaÿe struck the right tone. In an interview, he reflected on the relationship between the American people and classical music, sounding rather like Woodrow Wilson. “There is in the soul of the American people a musical instinct which only waits to be awakened.” As for the war, Ysaÿe claimed it “demonstrated that the ideals of . . . the Americans are those which finally will govern the world because they are based on unselfishness.” The newest Cincinnatian concluded with sentiments that likely tugged at local heartstrings. “As an exile of my poor country, sacked, ruined, and still under the heel of the criminal barbarians, I have found here in Cincinnati some solace for my grief, because I feel that the welcome . . . extended to me” was offered to the musician and the Belgian.48
As we have seen, Kunwald’s problems began in Pittsburgh in November 1917, when he was prevented from leading his ensemble. This was part of an anti-German policy in the city’s musical life that was as draconian as any in the country. On November 6, the Pittsburgh Orchestra Association, the group responsible for organizing orchestral concerts in the city (Pittsburgh’s orchestra had been disbanded in 1910 for financial reasons), decided that the Philadelphia Orchestra, which performed regularly in Pittsburgh, would be prohibited from playing music by all German composers and by any who were subjects of Germany’s allies.49 The board of Pittsburgh’s orchestra association asserted that “all loyal citizens” must reject anything that suggested “German influence.” Any other course would provide “moral support to the enemies of . . . art and progress.”50 The Philadelphia Orchestra accepted the ban without complaint.51
That same month, Pittsburgh’s residents encountered language that went well beyond demanding a prohibition on the works of Beethoven, Wagner, and other Germans, alive or dead. A more fundamental question—what was to be done about the German American problem—emerged in local discourse, and is illustrated by several fiery speeches given by the former ambassador to Germany, James W. Gerard, who spoke to thousands of wildly enthusiastic listeners in the Steel City. “We should hog-tie every complaining or disloyal German-American, and feed every pacifist raw meat and hang every traitor to a lamp post, to insure success in this war,” he told 2,000 people at one gathering. Gerard, who had returned from his post in Berlin the previous March, shared a story about a meeting with the German foreign minister in which the German told the American there were five hundred thousand German reservists living in the United States prepared to “rise up in arms” against America. “I explained,” Gerard recalled, “that there were 500,000 lamp posts in this country, and the morning following the supposed uprising,” there would be “a German reservist swinging” from every one. “If we value our honor,” Gerard declared, “we must wipe the face of the German autocracy from the face of the earth.”52
With such vitriol flowing freely, it was predictable that some in Pittsburgh would be determined to silence music written by Germans or Germany’s allies. Once the ban was implemented, a Pittsburgh Post column wondered whether the rest of the country would follow suit. Evincing a certain pride, the column noted the city had “set an example . . . to the patriots of the United States.” With some disappointment, the paper noted that performance policies in places like New York, Chicago, Minneapolis, and San Francisco did not yet reflect the “patriotic urge” that had propelled Pittsburgh to act. But the paper was hopeful, noting it would soon be clear if other cities decided to assume the same posture.53
Among the more incendiary reflections to appear in the local press was Francis Grierson’s contribution to the Pittsburgh Dispatch, which mined many of the anti-German themes of the period. Propounding the notion that music possessed insidious powers, Grierson,
a writer and talented pianist, railed against German cultural domination, which he claimed had permeated America for some fifty years. Germany had sought to gain control of the United States by deploying literature, philosophy, and music to achieve nefarious ends, thus teutonizing American life.54 Music was central to the German effort and to Grierson’s polemic, which compared the conductors, musicians, and singers who offered performances of German music to “a Prussian spider that attracts musical flies to his weaving way.” Since the primary aim was to capture listeners, music was a pernicious and crafty mechanism for advancing Germany’s larger ends, as music was often seen as “neutral.” This was untrue, for no other art so successfully competed with “the spells cast by musical magic.” As the war continued, Grierson contended, authorities in Germany, Austria, and Hungary sought to convince Americans that “the Teutons are the [world’s] most harmonious . . . people.” This explained the continuing presentation of Beethoven’s symphonies and Wagner’s operas, which had a powerful “psychological” impact on the minds of those “whose sentimentalism” exceeded “their patriotism.” If nothing else, Grierson’s blend of anti-German bigotry and puerile musical mysticism buttressed Pittsburgh’s decision to proscribe all German music.55
But some failed to grasp how banning every German composition would help win the war. A letter published in the Pittsburgh Gazette suggested that those who favored proscribing Handel, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven should be informed that the composers were all dead and buried. The writer noted that a lecture series on the Beethoven symphonies had recently been cancelled, and questioned how that decision, along with banning their performance, could aid the cause of liberty. Finally, the letter writer wondered whether Pittsburgh wished to make itself the laughingstock of America’s leading cities merely because “provincial, parochial, and Pittsburgh” all began with the same letter.56 And outside Pittsburgh, the decision engendered a range of commentary. The New York Tribune gently scolded the Pennsylvania city for its “absurd decision,” while noting that New York should not ban Beethoven. With an air of condescension toward the hinterlands, the newspaper said it was certain that Pittsburgh would soon regret its “hasty” decree.57
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