Violins of Hope

  EPIGRAPH

  We played music for sheer survival.

  We made music in hell.

  —HEINZ “COCO” SCHUMANN

  CONTENTS

  Epigraph

  Prologue: Amnon’s Violins

  1. The Wagner Violin

  2. Erich Weininger’s Violin

  3. The Auschwitz Violin

  4. Ole Bull’s Violin

  5. Feivel Wininger’s Violin

  6. Motele Schlein’s Violin

  Epilogue: Shimon Krongold’s Violin

  Acknowledgments

  Notes

  Bibliography

  Index

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  AMNON’S VIOLINS

  Amnon and Moshe Weinstein repairing a double bass in their workshop, ca. 1965. Amnon continues to make and repair string instruments in this same workshop in Tel Aviv. (Courtesy of Amnon Weinstein.)

  Amnon Weinstein’s earliest memories are of his immediate family sitting around the table at major Jewish holidays like Rosh Hashanah and Passover in the late 1940s. There were four of them. Amnon, his little sister Esther, and their parents Moshe and Golda. And four hundred ghosts. These were the ghosts of the relatives who had been left behind when Moshe and Golda had immigrated to Palestine in 1938.

  Moshe was a violinist, a violin teacher, and a violin repairman. He had been fascinated by the violin ever since he was seven years old, when he had heard a traveling Klezmer ensemble playing at a wedding in his hometown of Brest-Litovsk. Since there were no suitable violin teachers in Brest-Litovsk, Moshe traveled to Vilna, a Lithuanian city that was a capital of Jewish culture. There Moshe attended the same conservatory that Vilna native and violin virtuoso Jascha Heifetz had attended just a few years earlier. Moshe even won an award for performing Mendelssohn’s difficult violin concerto—the same work with which Heifetz had made his debut. It was in Vilna that Moshe met his future wife Golda, who accompanied him on the piano.

  After finishing their studies at the Vilna conservatory, Moshe and Golda decided to move to Palestine. They were Zionists, followers of a Jewish movement that called for a home and a national identity for Jews in the Land of Israel. Their four hundred relatives remained behind in Europe. Some, like Moshe’s father Yaakov—a rabbi—considered the secular Zionist movement to be sacrilegious. They believed that returning to Israel prior to the arrival of the Messiah was contrary to God’s will. Others simply waited too long to secure the finances and paperwork necessary to travel to the Holy Land. When Germany invaded the Soviet Union on June 22, 1941, they became trapped in Nazi-occupied Eastern Europe.

  Knowing that he would not be able to make a living as a violinist in Palestine, Moshe decided to become a violin repairman. The violin is a very popular instrument in Jewish culture, and Moshe wisely predicted that the tens of thousands of Jews who were immigrating to Palestine would create a market for an outstanding craftsman who could fix their instruments. In order to develop his skills, Moshe traveled to Warsaw to apprentice with Yaakov Zimmerman, a respected Jewish violinmaker.

  Zimmerman is remembered as an outstanding artisan who was also very kind, especially toward young Jewish musicians. Famous violinist Ida Haendel, who was seven years old when her father brought her to Warsaw to study at the Chopin Conservatory, describes Zimmerman as a selfless person who would often repair instruments for free. Former concertmaster of the Berlin Philharmonic Michel Schwalbé, who also trained in Warsaw, recalled how Zimmerman gave him everything he needed to play the violin, including instruments, strings, and bow hairs. Zimmerman even found a room in the apartment of Warsaw industrialist Shimon Krongold in which Schwalbé could practice. For Jewish children like Haendel and Schwalbé, this level of support was life-changing. Zimmerman disappeared during the Holocaust. It is assumed that he died in the Warsaw Ghetto.

  Upon moving to Palestine, Moshe found a job picking oranges alongside numerous other immigrants in the agricultural community of Petah Tikvah. By 1939, he and Golda—who was also known as Zahava, the Hebrew form of her name—had earned enough money to move six and a half miles west to Tel Aviv. Moshe opened his violin shop and quickly established himself as a prominent figure in Tel Aviv’s burgeoning music scene. He was a peaceful man who thought that all children should learn to play the violin. People who played music, he believed, could be neither evil nor violent. While the exploitation of music during the Holocaust would prove him wrong, Moshe himself exemplified the noble principles behind his convictions by arranging scholarships that helped promising young talents like Pinchas Zukerman and Shlomo Mintz travel to the United States to receive the best training in the world at the Juilliard School.

  Moshe and Golda also started a family. Their son Amnon was born in 1939. Their daughter Esther came along five years later.

  By the end of the Holocaust, Moshe and Golda had heard very little from the relatives they had left behind. At first they had received a few letters asking for help with securing visas from family members who had hoped to join them in Palestine. But all communication had stopped once Germany had invaded the Soviet Union in June 1941.

  Then a Holocaust survivor visited Moshe in Tel Aviv and told him how his entire family had been killed.

  Before the war, Moshe’s family had moved to Volkovysk, which was occupied by the Nazis shortly after the German invasion. The Germans had started massacring Jews immediately. On November 2, 1942, all of the remaining Jews from Volkovysk and the surrounding areas were marched to a former prisoner-of-war camp. A number of Jews who tried to escape were caught and executed. One of them was Moshe’s brother, who was shot on the spot. By the end of the year, all but two thousand of the twenty thousand Jews in the camp would be sent to the Treblinka death camp. Everyone else was sent to Auschwitz on January 12, 1943.

  The horrific stories were too much for Moshe to handle. That night, he suffered the first of many heart attacks that would ultimately cause his death. Moshe never spoke of his family again.

  It was just as hard for Golda to talk about her family. They had remained behind in Vilna, which was occupied by the German army on June 24, 1941. The troops were quickly followed by death squads that began rounding up Jews and taking them to the nearby Ponary forest. Ponary had once been a popular weekend getaway for Vilna’s Jews and gentiles alike. Now it would become the site of one of the most brutal massacres in the Holocaust. There were fifty-seven thousand Jews living in Vilna during the German invasion. By the time the Red Army liberated the city on July 13, 1944, only a few thousand remained. Like Moshe, none of Golda’s relatives survived.

  Racked with survivor’s guilt, Golda threw away the letters she had received from her family. The memories were like voices she could no longer bear to hear. When young Amnon asked about his grandparents, aunts, and uncles, she would struggle to find words that could explain why he would never be able to meet them. The best she could do was to bring out a book she had found about the Vilna ghetto and the Ponary massacre. “This is where your grandparents are,” she would tell him, pointing to the ghastly photos of the dead. “This is my family.” She would break down in tears, unable to explain further.

  Although they could never bring themselves to discuss their dead relatives, the guilt and sorrow Moshe and Golda felt over their devastating losses permeated the Weinstein household, and with it Amnon’s childhood.

  There were tangible reminders, as well.

  Since Moshe was the president of the Association of Vilna Immigrants, the Weinstein apartment was the first stop in Palestine for survivors from Vilna who were hoping to start a new life in the land of their biblical ancestors. Moshe welcomed them all into his apartment for homemade meals and
warm beds until they could find homes of their own. Young Amnon was frightened by the emaciated guests who were startled by every noise. He could not understand why they hid leftover bread under their pillows and blankets. Years passed until the sounds of the visitors crying themselves to sleep stopped resonating in his own nightmares.

  As a young man, Amnon tried to forget about the catastrophe that had robbed him of his extended family and replaced them with terrifying strangers. He busied himself with establishing a career as a luthier—a maker and repairer of string instruments. Growing up in his father’s violin shop, Amnon had watched as Moshe had helped countless young violinists launch their performing careers. Moshe had given the poorest students violins, bows, and strings, just as his mentor Yaakov Zimmerman had done for Jewish children in Warsaw. Amnon wanted to make the same impact on the lives of musicians. After apprenticing with his father, he moved to Cremona, Italy, to learn old-world craftsmanship in the city made famous by violinmakers such as Amati, Guarneri, and Stradivari. In Cremona, Amnon studied with master luthiers Pietro Sgarabotto, Giuseppe Ornati, and Ferdinando Garimberti before moving to Paris to learn from renowned violinmaker Étienne Vatelot.

  When Moshe passed away in 1986, Amnon took over the family business. In 1998, he continued the dynasty that his father had initiated by starting to train his own son Avshalom, who may be the first third-generation Jewish luthier in history. By that time, Amnon had established himself as one of the finest luthiers in the world and an important figure in Israeli culture. His wife Assi also enjoys prominence as a journalist and as the daughter of one of the heroic Bielski brothers, who were commemorated in the film Defiance.

  Despite Amnon’s efforts to ignore the Holocaust, it continued to haunt him. In the late 1980s, a man who had played the violin in Auschwitz visited Amnon’s workshop. The survivor had not touched his instrument since leaving the death camp. He now wanted to get it restored for his grandson. The top of the violin was damaged from having been played in the rain and snow. When Amnon took the instrument apart, he discovered ashes inside that he could only assume to be fallout from the crematoria at Auschwitz. The very thought of what that violin and its owner had been through together shook Amnon to his core, but he quickly pushed those gruesome thoughts aside. It was still too difficult for him to think about the Holocaust.

  By the 1990s, around the same time he started training his son Avshalom, Amnon was finally ready to reclaim his lost heritage. Five decades after his family had been destroyed, he started reflecting not only on the Holocaust but on the role that music—specifically the violin—played in Jewish lives throughout that dark period. He began locating and restoring violins that were played by Jewish musicians during the Holocaust.

  Some of the instruments that Amnon has tracked down were damaged during the Holocaust, and had been unplayable ever since. But once he brings them into his workshop, Amnon pours his heart, his soul, and his considerable expertise as a master luthier into breathing new life into them. The painstaking restorations can take up to eighteen months. When Amnon is done piecing the violins back together, they are ready for performances in the world’s finest concert halls. Although some of the musicians who once played the neglected and severely damaged instruments were silenced by the Holocaust, their voices and spirits live on through the violins that Amnon has lovingly restored.

  The Violin in the Holocaust

  The violin has formed an important aspect of Jewish culture for centuries. Many of the world’s greatest violinists have been Jewish. This includes—but is certainly not limited to—the nineteenth-century dedicatees of the revered violin concertos by Brahms and Mendelssohn; twentieth-century masters Jascha Heifetz, Yehudi Menuhin, and Isaac Stern; and contemporary virtuosos Itzhak Perlman, Pinchas Zukerman, and Shlomo Mintz. Some scholars have even attributed the violin’s invention to Jews who fled to Italy after Spain expelled its entire Jewish population in 1492. Since then, the instrument has played a vital role in professional life as a popular choice for classical Jewish musicians, as well as in communal life as an essential component of the enduring Klezmer tradition.

  During the Holocaust, the violin assumed extraordinary new roles within the Jewish community. The instruments introduced in this book chronicle just a few of those functions.

  For some musicians, the violin became a liberator that freed them and their families from Nazi tyranny. In 1936, Bronisław Huberman recruited seventy-five Jewish performers to form a new orchestra in Palestine, providing them with the legal and financial means to move safely out of Europe before it was too late (chapter 1). Ernst Glaser, the Jewish concertmaster of the Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra, used his musical influence to escape a Nazi riot during a concert in Bergen in 1941. He eventually fled occupied Norway to Sweden, where he spent the remainder of the war performing and raising money for the Norwegian freedom fighters camped out along the border (chapter 4).

  For many, the violin was a comforter in mankind’s darkest hour. Erich Weininger was imprisoned in Dachau before being transferred to Buchenwald. After the British Quakers engineered his release in 1939, the Nazis allowed him to leave for Palestine, where Weininger and 3,500 other illegal immigrants were intercepted by British warships. They were deported to the island of Mauritius, where they were confined until the end of the war. Throughout those five years, Weininger brought comfort to himself and to his fellow prisoners by playing the violin in an orchestra with other detainees (chapter 2).

  For others, the violin was a savior that spared their lives in concentration camps and ghettos. The members of the orchestras in Auschwitz played as the work details marched in and out of the concentration camp every day. In exchange, they often received lighter work details and better food—providing them with their best chances for survival (chapter 3). In the ghettoized Romanian territory of Transnistria, Feivel Wininger performed at weddings and parties in exchange for leftovers that he could bring back to his family. By playing the violin, Wininger was able to spare sixteen family members and friends from starvation (chapter 5).

  In at least one case, the violin was an avenger that brought retribution for murdered family members. After his parents and sister were executed, Mordechai “Motele” Schlein joined Uncle Misha’s Jewish Group, a band of Jewish combatants who were fighting the Nazis in the dense forests of Poland and Ukraine. In August 1943, Motele infiltrated a Nazi Soldiers Club, where he was hired to provide entertainment during meals. Every night, Motele would hide his violin in the Soldiers Club and take home an empty violin case. He would return the next morning with a few pounds of explosives hidden in that case. When high-ranking SS officers arrived for a visit, Motele blew up the building (chapter 6).

  For the family of Shimon Krongold, a violin is one of the only remaining mementos of their beloved relative. After Shimon died of typhus in Central Asia, a survivor brought the instrument to Shimon’s brother in Jerusalem. The violin and a picture of Shimon holding the instrument are the only items of Shimon’s legacy that survived the Holocaust (epilogue).

  Although today Shimon Krongold’s Violin and the other Violins of Hope serve as memorials of those who perished, during the Holocaust they represented optimism for the future.

  Wherever there were violins, there was hope.

  1

  THE WAGNER VIOLIN

  Arturo Toscanini (center left) and Bronisław Huberman (center right) at the public dress rehearsal of the Palestine Orchestra on December 25, 1936—one day before the ensemble’s debut. (Photograph by Rudi Weissenstein, Pri-Or PhotoHouse. Courtesy of the Murray S. Katz Photo Archives of the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra.)

  In the early twentieth century, Jews living in Germany were participating in the intellectual and cultural life of their county in ways that would have been inconceivable in previous eras. In 1925, Jews comprised 16 percent of physicians, 15 percent of dentists, and 25 percent of lawyers in the German state of Prussia, even though they formed less than 1 percent of the general population. In addition to h
olding prominent positions in the banking industry and on university faculties, Jews were disproportionately represented in Germany’s artistic scene, representing 3 percent of professionals in music and theater, 4 percent in the film industry, and 7 percent of visual artists and writers.

  Tragically, the increase in Jewish success in professional life was accompanied by a rise in anti-Semitism. Discrimination against Jews was, of course, not limited to Germany, and it was certainly not anything new. Ever since the birth of Christianity, gentiles had looked upon Jews with suspicion, blaming them for everything from the death of Jesus Christ to natural disasters. The persistent myth of the “blood libel” even accused Jews of using the blood of Christian children for religious rituals, particularly the making of the unleavened bread for Passover.

  In the years following World War I, right-wing Germans blamed the Jews for their demoralizing losses on the battlefield, as well as for the social and economic turbulence that followed. Jews were falsely accused of stabbing the country in the back by failing to adequately support the war effort. The right wing maintained that it was this betrayal, not weaknesses in the military, that had ultimately led to Germany’s defeat. They contended that the only way to restore Germany to its former glory was to rid the country of the Jews who were responsible for its ruin.

  The assimilation of Jews into German society was also blamed for a perceived decline in German culture. Germany had dominated classical music from J. S. Bach in the early eighteenth century to Richard Wagner in the late nineteenth century. The end of that two-hundred-year supremacy was attributed to the Jewish composers and composition teachers who eschewed traditional Germanic tonal structures in favor of modernist compositional processes. The international Jewish influences that championed atonality, it was argued, had undermined German culture. One prominent conservative composer even drew a parallel between the “impotence” and “decay” in German musical tastes and the decline in German society that had led to the country’s otherwise inexplicable military defeat.1