Month: July 2016

This week is a busy (but exciting) one. The museum is hosting the European Summer University for Jewish Studies,¹ an event that brings together students and lecturers from across Europe and the world for a week of lessons and seminars. The theme this summer is “Jüdische Heimstädte. Jerusalem und andere Jerusalems”—a discussion of Jerusalem, based not only in the city’s role as a Jewish homeland, but on other notions of the city across spatial and temporal differences. The summer university is a cooperative effort between the Jewish Museum Hohenems and universities in Bamberg, Basel, Munich, Salzburg, Vienna and Zürich.

Most of the lectures are in German (I attended the only English one this morning). Yet the university attracts geographically diverse participants—while most have some affiliation with one of the sponsoring universities, some also originate from places as varied as the United States and Israel, Australia and Switzerland, and speak Yiddish, Hebrew, or other languages in addition to English and German. The university also attracts some of the top minds in the relatively small world that is German-speaking Jewish studies academia.²

Many participants are returners, some even for a third or fourth time. The university therefore gives them an opportunity to reunite with old friends and colleagues, while also encountering new perspectives.

After uncertain weather for most of the summer, it’s also been a beautiful week in Hohenems. For those interested in Jewish history and Jewish studies, there is no better place to be.

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¹ In German, it’s the Europäische Sommeruniversität für Jüdische Studien, which is often shortened to Sommeruni.

² For anyone familiar with the academic circles of Jewish studies, a listing of lectures is available here.

A Dannhauser born in Lyon, who has already lived in Göteborg. A Brunner born in Vienna and saved from the Nazis through a Kindertransport to Great Britain. A descendant of Rabbi Kafka who was born in Benghazi in Libya, a Brunner descendant who was born in Milan and grew up in Malaga in Spain, a British born Bernheimer descendant who only recently learned about her Hohenems connection. A violonist, a Catholic priest, an archivist of the British Library, a French language teacher, an artist, and a Rosenthal who is a curator at the London Jewish Museum and the only one at the table who was NOT a Hohenems descendant or spouse—that was the crowd meeting in the nice Market Restaurant on Parkway in Camden last Thursday.

On the occasion of the London presentation of our exhibition “Jukebox. Jewkbox! A Century on Shellac and Vinyl!” we organized a little London pre-reunion of Hohenems descendants. After a tour through the exhibition, we enjoyed spending time together and I had the chance to give an update on the museum’s development and the preparations for the big event next year—when we expect descendants from all over the world for the third Hohenems Reunion, celebrating 400 years of Jewish presence in Hohenems and the Hohenems Diaspora.

For some, meeting in London was an opportunity to reunite with more or less distant cousins having already seen in Hohenems and to exchange updates on family events, careers and life. For others, it was a first encounter with each other and with the Hohenems background of their families.

It was also definitely an encounter with a dimension of 20th century popular culture that was unknown to most before our exhibition. Telling the history of the global music business and of pop music that connected the world with the invention of the gramophone and the record was a thrilling experience. It’s all about “identity” in the making. And as is common with this quest for identity, you end up with something round and nice, like a record of shellac or vinyl: with a long spiral trajectory and nothing but a hole in the middle—a blind spot, something that you must leave open as a question.

But there is one thing we do know—and it’s a funny story itself. In some way, the history of pop music starts in Hohenems. How could this be?

In 1826, a young cantor from Hohenems, Salomon Sulzer, was invited to become chief cantor of Vienna. Soon he became a star in this world capital of music of the time. He was the first Jewish musician that non-Jews listened to in great numbers. He ranked among the greatest composers of the time, along with Schubert and Liszt. He was among the first who set Jewish prayers in written, notated music that could be sung by professional choirs. His composition had a strong impact on his contemporaries. He composed and performed secular music with lyrics from Goethe to revolutionary songs. He was adored like a star by Jews and non-Jews alike. And he became the role model for many Jewish musicians who crossed the border between the synagogue and later Broadway and Tin Pan Alley, where Jewish musicians (especially the sons of cantors) became prominent and successful performers, composers and producers of popular music, shows and musicals after Sulzer’s time. They formed a line ending (preliminary) with punk bands like The Clash and singers like Amy Winehouse.

The story, therefore, of how pop music started is a strange bit of chance, and it might even be pure legend. When Salomon Sulzer was a child, he fell into the Ems creek but was saved. His parents swore an oath that he would serve his community by becoming a singer in the synagogue. We’ll say “se non e vero e ben trovato”—even if if it is not true, it is a good story to tell.

Getting together with a crowd from Hohenems in “Jukebox. Jewkbox!” in London—specifically in Camden town, the birth place of British pop, just a few blocks down from Camden Market where the Clash once rehearsed and where today a small monument commemorates Amy Winehouse—is a particularly nice spiral movement toward the riddle in the middle. I greatly enjoyed that.

In the middle of weird times in London, it is still a joy to be in the city. At least there is no “Brexit” for Jewish Museums. Our London colleagues invited our exhibit “Jukebox. Jewkbox! A Century on Shellac and Vinyl,” which opened yesterday at the beautiful Jewish Museum on Albert Street in Camden.

The opening (which they called a “private view”) attracted hundreds of joyful guests. We didn’t exactly get privacy, but we did have many nice encounters, chats, and discussions. The crowd seemed like they could have stayed at the show forever, listening to the music samples and the intimate, poignant and thought-provoking stories told by some forty “witnesses” of the history of 20th-century global popular music from all over the world.

These witnesses all came together digitally on the counter in the middle of our global record shop of “Jewish music.” (The eldest, a man from Warsaw who is now turning 101 years-old, told about his childhood memories of Jewish popular musicians and cantors in interwar Poland. The youngest spoke about her experiences with punk music and hip hop). Visitors explored the 20th century through the contributions of Jewish inventors, musicians, composers and business people to what became the first global culture: the gramophones and the records.

Since the museum had asked me to say a few words at the opening, I took the liberty to question some of the myths about “Jewish music.” The history of popular music was definitely influenced by the rebellion of Jewish cantors and their children, Yiddish theatre stars and comedians against their traditions and the expectations of their peers—much more than by any continuity of Jewish culture. But maybe this rebellion against tradition, this ongoing struggle for reinvention is also continuity?

Regardless, our show was a perfect stage for the crowd in the Jewish Museum London to bustle around, to share their own memories of moments where listening to a record could change their lives or perhaps the world, and to discuss the future of their country.

The same day our exhibit opened, the British got a new Prime Minister, jumping out of the box, who is able to say “Brexit means Brexit,” without having any idea what “Brexit” could mean. But maybe that is the secret of this tautology. “Brexit means Brexit means Brexit”—which is: it means nothing but a mess, without making sense to anybody. Be sure. We will get more of this in the future.

A seven-minute walk from the Jewish Museum, there is another old house that has been converted into a museum and tells stories about regional history. The Alte Zeiten Museum¹ explores Hohenems’ very early past—the building itself dates back to 1602.

While the house may be old, the museum is very new. The concept originated in 2012, when the building was actually set for demolition. A group of concerned citizens—searching for a way to preserve it—eventually settled on the idea of converting it into a museum. With the help of government and private funding, they restored the building and created inside it an exhibition on the early history of Hohenems.

The restoration of the old house sought to maintain its original character as much as possible. While the museum does have modern electric lighting, the ceilings remain very low.² The floor is composed of slightly uneven boards and a preserved flowery wallpaper is still visible in some places.

The museum’s exhibits tell of early life in Hohenems. Living, of course, wasn’t the same for everyone—the museum highlights the relationships between the count, the aristocracy, and the commoners who made up the majority of the population but mostly lived in poverty and had few legal rights.³ Another room details the ignominious history of witch hunts in the region: during the 17th century, some Hohenems residents were accused of—and ultimately executed for—practicing witchcraft. The museum also examines historical events like the Black Death and the Thirty Years War, as well as aspects of everyday life like craftsmanship and weaving.

Across the street from the museum sits another old house. Although it appears run-down today, it was one a brilliant mansion. Built in 1637, it may have once belonged to the mayor of Hohenems, although this claim isn’t verified.

Sägerstraße—the street which today hosts both the museum and the old mansion—was once the main part of Hohenems, but is now nestled in the hills slightly above the center of town.

The building that houses the Alte Zeiten museum, and the constructions that once surrounded it, actually pre-date the foundation of a Jewish community in Hohenems. (The count issued his Letter of Protection for Jewish families in 1617). Although the Jewish quarter and the Sägerstraße are not geographically far apart, there is enough distance to imagine the two communities operating as separate, at least for a time.

Of course, Hohenems has grown substantially since the 17th century. Today, the town not only stretches from the Sägerstraße to the Jewish quarter, but extends outward in all directions. Perhaps because of such growth, it’s important to remember (and learn about) the the old times.

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¹ “Alte Zeiten” is German for old times.

² Tall people will struggle a little bit.

³ Legal and economic inequality based on predestined social determinations existed both alongside and in the absence of inequality based on religion.

For the most part, Hohenems is a fairly quiet town. It’s located in a rural area. There is no university nearby. The most common summertime activities—hiking, cycling, swimming—are dispersed in the nearby mountains or the Rhine valley. Even the main road through town doesn’t see much traffic—anyone who is just passing through will find that it’s quicker to circumvent the city center entirely.

But for a few hours today, the center of Hohenems was bustling with traffic, although the purpose was admittedly a bit different. The cars weren’t typical—instead, it was an old-timers rally, featuring an array of classic and vintage vehicles.

(If the video isn’t playing for you, try this link).

The event in Hohenems was part of a tour known as the Silvretta Classic. They’re touring in western Austria (Vorarlberg and Tyrol) as well as Switzerland and even Lichtenstein this weekend.

The old-timers rally is one of the many slightly-quirky-but-fun events taking place in Hohenems this summer. Although the town is small, there is plenty to enjoy here. There is a lovely open-air market on the Schloßplatz, in the center of town, on Saturday mornings. Live music is common. The week after next, the museum will host the European Summer University for Jewish Studies, bringing students from Austria, Switzerland, and Germany to Hohenems.

It may not typically be loud, but things are certainly happening.

There is a dilapidated-looking building with the address 1-3 Radetzkystraße, located on one edge of Hohenems’ Jewish Quarter. Something green grows on the outside walls; one ceiling inside looks worryingly close to caving; plaster peels away from the walls; a number of the windows are broken. 

The villa wasn’t always like this. It’s a very old building, probably dating  back to the 17th century, although it underwent numerous renovations and additions over the years. Josef Rosenthal bought the neighboring post station in 1807, and his son August erected a new building in the same place in 1823. When Iwan and Franziska Rosenthal¹ made the grounds their home in 1890, they integrated the structures August had built to create the existing grand villa, with a bowling alley, carriage garage, and servants quarters, among other features.

Many of the house’s once-great features no longer function. The bowling alley is now stacked with furniture and other miscellaneous items. An anachronistic car sits in the former carriage garage. Dust coats many of the villa’s surfaces and cobwebs occupy odd corners.

Despite this decay, certain signs of the villa’s former grandeur are still apparent. Artwork adorns the walls. Many of the original ceilings are still visible, as are some of the wall panelings and a single stained glass window. An engraving at the top of the main staircase outlines an R, for Rosenthal.²

It has been a while since Iwan and Franziska resided in the villa. The couple emigrated to Vienna in 1914, although they sometimes returned to Hohenems. Iwan passed away in 1929 at age 86; his wife followed him two years later, so neither lived to see the rise of National Socialism in Austria. The couple had no surviving children, so following their deaths, the ownership of the villa passed to their niece, Amalie Hess. In 1938, Hess—who was living in St. Gallen, Switzerland—sold the building under significant political pressure. She was its last Jewish owner.³

The villa had various owners and occupants after 1938. At one point, it housed Turkish workers; at another, it was impacted by a fire. No one has lived in the main building for many years. The current owner resides in the former stable, while the villa itself has fallen into disarray.

Despite these struggles, parts of the villa are still intact and worth preserving. There is agreement the building ought to be restored, but how renovations will happen—and what the future use of the building will be—remain to be seen.

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¹ My great-great-great-great uncle and great-great-great-great aunt, incidentally.

² The emblem might also include and F for Franziska and an I for Iwan, or possibly a J for Josef. Take a look at the photo and decide for yourself.

³ The story of Iwan and Franziska’s home mirrors that of another Rosenthal villa. The Heimann-Rosenthal villa, which now houses the Jewish Museum, was built in 1864. Its last resident, Clara Heimann-Rosenthal, was one of the final Jews deported from Hohenems and died at Theresienstadt in 1942. She was 76. For more on old Jewish houses, the museum has a German database on its website.