Stories And Music from The Violins of Hope

Dr. James A. Grymes: 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 and a violin teacher. 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 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 musical training in the world. 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. 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 22, 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 surviveded. 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 would ask 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. 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. 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. 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— had 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. He calls these instruments the “Violins of Hope.” One of the most famous songs from the Holocaust was written in the Vilna Ghetto, where Golda Weinstein’s family was confined before being taken to the Ponary forest and murdered. The lyrics to “Shtiler, Shtiler” were written by Shmerke Kaczerginski, to a melody composed by an eleven-year old boy named Alec Volkoviski. It was first performed in the Vilna Ghetto, and has since become a popular song of Holocaust remembrance. The song is a lullaby in which a mother tells her son about what was happening in Ponary. It begins: Quiet, quiet, let us be silent, Graves are growing here. Planted by the enemy, They blossom toward the sky. All roads lead to Ponary, And none of them returns. Your father has disappeared, Disappeared with all our joy. (Applause) [Performance: “Shtiler, Shtiler”] (Applause) Dr. James A. Grymes: Ernst Böhm had been serving as the solo contrabassist for the West German Radio Orchestra in Cologne for seven years when he received instructions to stay away from the radio building until further notice. The order claimed that the injunction was just temporary, but Böhm would never play with the orchestra again. On June 29, 1933, the Reich Broadcasting Association sent the West German Radio a list of “non-***” and “politically unreliable” employees who were to be fired in keeping with Hitler’s Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service, which called for the removal of Jews from all public positions. Böhm’s name was at the top of that list. He was officially dismissed exactly one month later. In 1936, Böhm and a number of other Jewish musicians and their family members were rescued from Nazi persecution by Jewish violinist Bronisław Huberman when he founded what is now the world-famous Israel Philharmonic Orchestra. Huberman envisioned a world-class orchestra composed exclusively of Jewish musicians. Such an ensemble, he maintained, would be the greatest weapon against the Nazis who were claiming that Jews were incapable of great art. Since Huberman refused to set foot in Nazi Germany for any reason, he put conductor Hans Wilhelm Steinberg in charge of selecting German musicians for the orchestra. One of the musicians Steinberg recruited was trombonist Heinrich Schiefer. Born and raised in Berlin, Schiefer had made a living in his hometown by playing in coffeehouses, in silent-movie theaters, and in the German Film Orchestra before being dismissed from all of his positions in 1933. After accepting various jobs in Spain, the Netherlands, and Switzerland, Schiefer returned to Berlin in 1934. But by March 1936, the increasing discrimination had convinced him to leave Germany for good. Steinberg accepted Schiefer into the orchestra, but the trombonist already had two other job offers on the table. One was from a former colleague from Berlin who was starting a jazz band in Argentina. The other was from a symphony orchestra in the Azerbaijan Soviet Socialist Republic. Two of Schiefer’s colleagues from Berlin joined the jazz band in South America, but Schiefer opted to join Huberman’s orchestra. He was convinced by Steinberg’s urgings, as well as by the prospect of later bringing his parents to Palestine. “Enough with the jazz and communists,” his father advised him. “Stick with the Jews.” Although Huberman was not able to attract every musician he wanted to join his orchestra, the performing backgrounds of those he was able to recruit were remarkable. Of the seventy musicians who are listed in the orchestra’s first program, fifty-two had once been members of leading orchestras such as the Budapest Philharmonic, Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra, Vienna Concert Orchestra, and Warsaw Philharmonic. Of those fifty-two, an impressive thirty had held leadership positions in their orchestras. Huberman was creating not just an orchestra of exiles, but an orchestra of all-stars. Huberman was also doing much more than just building a world-class orchestra. He was saving lives. The first performance of the Palestine Orchestra took place in the evening of December 26, 1936. The hall was packed with 2,500 audience members, including British and Jewish luminaries from throughout Palestine. Several hundred music lovers stood in the drizzling rain outside of the auditorium, pressing themselves against the wall and even climbing onto the roof to hear the concert. They had come to witness the birth of their orchestra. Ever since its first concert, the orchestra has continued to be the crown jewel of Israeli culture. By giving exceptional performances for subscription holders and workers alike in Tel Aviv, Haifa, and Jerusalem, as well as in various settlements throughout the country, the orchestra quickly became the pride and joy of the Jewish community in Palestine. When the State of Israel declared its independence in 1948, the orchestra was there to perform “Hatikvah” (The Hope), the nineteenth-century Zionist hymn that had become Israel’s national anthem. Today the orchestra that is now known as the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra is widely recognized as one of the very best orchestras in the world—just as Huberman intended it to be. But the ensemble’s greatest legacy can be found in the lives it saved during the Holocaust. By helping the musicians as well as their family members immigrate to Palestine, Huberman saved an estimated one thousand lives between 1935 and 1939. “Vu ahin zoll ikh geyn” was written before the war by Latvian-Jewish composer Oskar Strock and lyricist Igor S. Korntayer, who died in Auschwitz. Although it pre-dates the Holocaust, the song became popular among eastern European Jews who had been forced from their jobs and their homes. Like the musicians of the Palestine Orchestra before Huberman’s intervention, they had nowhere to go. The song’s chorus asks, Where shall I go? Who can answer me? Where shall I go, When every door is locked? The world is large enough, But for me it’s small and crowded. Everything I see is not for me. Every road is closed. Where shall I go? (Applause) [Performance: “Vu ahin zoll ikh geyn”] (Applause) Dr. James A. Grymes: Shortly after Nazi Germany’s annexation of Austria on March 11, 1938, Viennese butcher and amatuer violinist Erich Weininger was arrested, beaten, and thrown on a train to the Dachau concentration camp. Although the prisoners were closely watched most of the time, the guards often left them unsupervised on Sundays. Some took advantage of their free time to socialize with other captives or to read newspapers. Others wrote to their families. Composer Herbert Zipper did something quite extraordinary: he formed a clandestine orchestra, one in which I believe Erich Weininger played. Zipper’s fourteen-piece orchestra performed in a latrine building that was still under construction. Their repertoire consisted of well-known classical works as well as music that Zipper composed in his head each week during forced labor. He wrote out the pieces late at night, when he was supposed to be cleaning toilets. Zipper notated the music on strips of paper that fellow prisoners would tear from the margins of Nazi newspapers and painstakingly paste together. There was only room in the unfinished latrine building for twenty to thirty people at a time, so the orchestra played in shifts of fifteen minutes to allow as many audience members as possible to rotate through the performances. The prisoners filed in quietly and remained in conspiratorial and awed silence throughout the brief concerts. In a tightly controlled concentration camp like Dachau, where such pursuits were strictly forbidden, the musicians and the audience members risked torture or even death for participating in these unsanctioned concerts. In addition to providing a source of emotional comfort for the detainees, the music served as an inspirational reminder of the humanity that Dachau had taken from them. When they listened to the music, they were no longer weak, demoralized, and humiliated. They were dignified and strong, united in their spiritual resistance to Nazi persecution. If only for fifteen minutes a week, they were surrounded not by the ugliness of the concentration camp, but by the beauty of music. Erich was transferred to Buchenwald later that fall. In the following Spring, Erich’s sister-in-law—a British Quaker—engineered his release. That winter, Erich began a harrowing year-long journey to Palestine that ultimately resulted in his arrest as an illegal immigrant. He was imprisoned in the Atlit detainee camp, south of Haifa. From there, he was deported to the British colony of Mauritius, in the Indian Ocean, where he and 1,600 other Jewish refugees spent the next four-and-a-half years in the Beau Bassin Prison. There, Erich and other refugee musicians regularly performed in the Beau Bassin Boys, a jazz orchestra formed by pianist and fellow detainee Fritz “Papa” Haas. In their first year in Mauritius, the Beau Bassin Boys provided the music for an English-language revue that consisted of songs, folk dances, and satirical poems about camp life. The vaudeville show was a big hit among those in attendance, which included the British commander of the camp and his wife, as well as members of the press. The popularity of the Beau Bassin Boys extended well beyond the prison walls. Their performances were broadcast over the radio and they were even allowed to leave the prison several times a week for performances. Dressed in matching white shirts and black pants, black bow ties with red cummerbunds, and white dinner jackets, the Beau Bassin Boys played at dances, weddings, and other official and festive events throughout Mauritius, including parties hosted by the island’s governor. These performances gave the musicians their only moments of freedom. Among the compositions that Herbert Zipper wrote in Dachau was a “Dachau Song.” The lyrics were written by the political journalist and cabaret playwright Jura Soyfer, who arrived in Dachau in June 1938, just a few weeks after Erich and Herbert. The three artists were transferred to Buchenwald on the same day that September. Erich and Herbert would survive the Holocaust, but Jura died of typhus in Buchenwald. Inspired by the “Work Makes You Free” sign that welcomed the prisoners back to camp every day after twelve hours of hard labor, the Dachau Song sarcastically encouraged them to “stay humane,” “be a man,” and “work as hard as you can,” regardless of the harsh realities of camp life. The prisoners immediately embraced the song’s message of defiant perseverance, and the Dachau Song quickly spread to other concentration camps. The Nazi guards, either ignorant of or unconcerned with the subversive nature of the text, enjoyed the song for its uniform, march-like rhythms. (Applause) [Performance: “Dachaulied”] (Applause) Dr. James A. Grymes: In addition to secret ensembles such as the one Herbert Zipper formed in Dachau in 1938, official orchestras had been performing in German concentration camps since 1933. Auschwitz was home to a number of ensembles, including a large orchestra in the Auschwitz Main Camp, orchestras in the men’s and women’s camps of Birkenau, and several other ensembles throughout the Auschwitz complex. These orchestras were composed of musicians who were recruited from the prisoner population. In the Auschwitz Main Camp, all detainees who were identified as musicians and who passed an audition were assigned to the gate orchestra. The orchestra’s main responsibility was to play marches at the camp gate, to provide a cheerful façade and rhythmic orderliness as the work details marched out of camp and returned every day. The ensemble also performed during executions, roll calls, and official visits by luminaries ranging from SS commander Heinrich Himmler to a delegation of the Red Cross. The top eighty musicians from the gate orchestra also played in a symphony orchestra that gave concerts on Sunday afternoons and holidays for the SS officers and guards, as well as for their fellow prisoners. For camp commandant Rudolf Höss, the performances provided regular opportunities to present himself to his visitors and family members as a cultured patron of the arts. For Höss’s SS subordinates, the concerts lent a sense of normalcy, decency, and even nobility to working in the camp. For the members of the orchestra, the events offered opportunities to earn food and cigarettes from their captors. And for the detainees who attended the symphony orchestra’s performances, the music provided a mental escape from the harsh realities of life in Auschwitz. As one of the prisoners would say, “The Germans put barbed wire all around the camp so that no one will escape, but I just close my eyes and I’m on the other side of the wires. They have no idea that we’re all fugitives.” As a reward for their contributions to camp life, the orchestral musicians sometimes received preferential treatment. This included special uniforms and lighter work details such as copying music and repairing musical instruments. Many of the performers were assigned to work in the kitchen, giving them access to extra food while also allowing them to work inside. But membership in the orchestra did not by any means spare the musicians from reassignment, deportation, or death. One violinist was selected for execution during a rehearsal. He was allowed to finish the piece before being taken away and killed. The turnover in personnel was so great that a total of eight hundred musicians performed during the orchestra’s four-year existence, even though the ensemble never included more than 120 musicians at any given time. One of the most influential Jewish musicians in the Birkenau Men’s Camp Orchestra was the Polish violinist and composer Szymon Laks, who had been arrested in Paris in 1941. In the summer of 1942, Szymon was deported to Auschwitz. At first, he had been assigned to a grueling work detail. After twenty days of growing increasingly emaciated and depressed, fortune had smiled on him. Szymon was saved by his block elder. “Is there someone here who speaks Polish and plays bridge?” asked the Polish block elder one evening. He and two other block elders needed a fourth for their nightly game. Since the prisoners in that barrack had all been transported from France, Szymon was the only one who qualified. While playing bridge with the three block elders, Szymon happened to mention that he was a violinist and a composer. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” his block elder asked. “Tomorrow you’ll stay in the barracks and I’ll take you over to the orchestra.” “And if you’re accepted, maybe you’ll live a little longer,” one of the other block elders added, laughing. At dawn the next morning, Szymon’s block elder took him to the music barrack, where conductor Jan Zaborski handed Szymon a violin and asked him to play. Szymon’s fingers were stiff and bruised from three weeks of labor duty. His arms were so sore he could barely hold the bow. But he somehow found the strength to launch into Mendelssohn’s difficult violin concerto—forgetting that the Jewish composer had been banned by the Nazis. Zaborski stopped him after just a few measures. “Good. Technique not bad, not bad,” the conductor said. “Tell your barracks chief that you have been accepted and for him to transfer you to this barracks. Also tell him to take you to the clothing storeroom, where they’ll exchange those rags you’re wearing for decent stripes.” And so Szymon was accepted into the orchestra. Szymon became the chief arranger and conductor for the Birkenau Men’s Camp Orchestra. One day, after picking up a piece of trash on the ground that turned out to be the sheet music to “Three Warsaw Polonaises,” Szymon arranged the melodies for three instruments. Since Polish music had been forbidden by the Nazi regime, Szymon and two of his friends would play the polonaises in secret while the other orchestra members were out on their work details. If an outsider suddenly appeared in the music barrack, they would quickly switch to another piece that had been agreed on in advance. For Szymon and his friends, playing the polonaises was not just a way of remembering their homeland. It was a way to show that they would not completely bend to Nazi prejudices. (Applause) [Performance: “Three Warsaw Polonaises”] (Applause) Dr. James A. Grymes: During the 1940–41concert season, the Norwegian city of Bergen was celebrating the 175th anniversary of the founding of its orchestra. The highlight of the Bergen Philharmonic’s 175th season was to be an appearance by Ernst Glaser, the concertmaster of the Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra and the country’s most prominent musician. Anticipation was especially high because Ernst was going to be performing on a valuable Guarneri del Gesù violin that had once been owned by the celebrated nineteenth-century Norwegian virtuoso Ole Bull. The philharmonic concert began innocently enough, with a performance of Haydn’s Military Symphony. About fifteen minutes into the Haydn, a large group of teenage boys entered the concert hall and occupied the empty seats. Some audience members found it nice that the young people were taking an interest in classical music, even if they did arrive late. Others immediately suspected that the teenagers’ motives were much more sinister: the boys were members of the National Youth—Norway’s version of the Hitler Youth—who were planning a demonstration if the Jewish concertmaster from Oslo set foot on the stage. The violin concerto was supposed to follow the Haydn symphony, but Ernst did not appear. The lengthy gap between pieces and the presence of the National Youth created a foreboding silence throughout the audience. Backstage, Nazi officials were telling conductor Harold Heide that Ernst must not be allowed to perform. Heide was instructed to stop the concert. He refused. He did, however, buy himself some time by postponing Ernst’s appearance to later in the concert. Heide returned to the stage and announced a change: the orchestra would now play The Flute of Sanssouci, an orchestral suite by German composer Paul Graener that came after the concerto on the printed program. The orchestra played all four movements of Graener’s suite. Then there was another long pause. Instead of returning to the podium, Heide could be seen pacing back and forth behind the orchestra, looking distraught. The members of the orchestra looked at him and at each other in confusion. Finally, Heide resigned himself to the fact that he would be putting Ernst at too much of a risk if he allowed him to perform. Heide stepped to the front of the stage and announced that he was very sorry, but that due to unforeseen circumstances the remainder of the concert would have to be canceled. “What the hell!” yelled one of the National Youth from the balcony. “Why doesn’t he come?” They had been waiting to protest Ernst through half of the Haydn and all of the Graener. They had grown impatient for the protests to begin. “Is it because Glaser is a Jew?” someone else shouted. Then all hell broke loose. The demonstrators started booing and chanting “Down with the Jews! Down with the Jews!” In what is surely one of the most heroic moments in the history of music, the music lovers in attendance became enraged and attacked the demonstrators. Fights broke out throughout the concert hall. One member of the audience struck a Nazi hooligan with the handle of her umbrella. (Laughter) A violinist from the orchestra tore off his tuxedo jacket and jumped from the stage to join the bloody fistfight against the National Youth. Before things could get too far out of hand, Heide leapt to the podium and quickly instructed the orchestra to strike up the Norwegian national anthem. The entire orchestra rose. As soon as the audience and the National Youth heard the opening chords, their patriotism obliged them to stop whatever they were doing and sing along. (Laughter) Throughout the national anthem, the National Youth were compelled to stand at attention, extending their right arms in the Nazi salute. While the rioters stood motionless, Heide made sure that Ernst and Ole Bull’s Violin were safely escorted out of the hall. Ernst returned to Olso, and eventually escaped to Sweden, where he spent the remainder of the war raising money and providing comfort for the “Boys in the Woods”—Norwegian freedom fighters camped out along the Swedish border. On October 25, 1944, the northeastern town of Kirkenes became the first Norwegian locality to be liberated by the Russians. At the request of the Norwegian legation, Ernst’s friend Robert Levin composed a Kirkenes March to celebrate the historic event. A few days later, Levin conducted the march’s premiere in a town in Sweden where a Norwegian military commander had just completed a major maneuver with five thousand armed and unified Norwegian soldiers. It was a momentous occasion that signaled that the Boys in the Woods had evolved from a motley collection of refugees into a full-fledged military operation that would soon be ready to cross back into Norway. At the premier of the Kirkenes march, the violin was played by Ernst, the concertmaster from Oslow. Tonight the violin will be played by UNC Charlotte’s concertmaster who also happens to be from Oslow. The first lines from the march read: The first lines of the Kirkenes March read, Against the enemy’s soldiers, Friends risked their blood and steel. Thank you for Kirkenes, friends, Now we will show that we measure up. We are few indeed, but we know where we stand, For each bit of land that we fight for is ours. That land, before we make peace, Shall be as free as Kirkenes. (Applause) [Performance: “Kirkenes March”] (Applause) Dr. James A. Grymes: In October 1941, Feivel Wininger was taken on a death march through the snow from Romania to Transnistria. His uncle and mother died along the way. Feivel and his family ended up in the Shargorod Ghetto. Ten days after Feivel arrived in Shargorod, a man paid him a visit. Feivel barely recognized him as Judge Robinson. As a chief justice back in Romania, Judge Robinson had once been a tall, elegantly dressed man of great distinction in both the Jewish and gentile communities. Now the judge was stooped, emaciated, and wearing a dirty, shabby suit. He approached Feivel extending a trembling hand that was dried and blistered. In his other hand, he carried a violin case. “Please be seated, Mr. Robinson,” Feivel said, quickly adding, “Your Honor.” The judge sheepishly smiled a toothless grin and sat down. “I know that you are a musician,” he said. “I also played once, when my hands still worked. You are young and will be able to play for many years.” The judge opened the case and took out an Amati—an instrument crafted by one of the most respected names in violinmaking. It was Nicolò Amati who had taught Andrea Guarneri, the patriarch of the Guarneri dynasty and the grandfather of the man who made Ole Bull’s Violin. Nicolò may have also been Antonio Stradivari’s teacher. Feivel’s hands shook as the judge handed him the expensive instrument. “Take it,” the judge insisted. “What good is a violin if I have no food? If you’re able to earn a little something from making music, then don’t forget me.” The judge left as quickly as he had appeared. Feivel had not even had the time to react. He was too stunned by the gift to do anything but put the violin back in its case and set it aside. The day after the judge’s visit, Feivel finally decided that it was time to try out the violin. He nervously removed the instrument from its case, placed it against his neck, and drew the bow lightly across the strings. He was instantly enchanted by the sound. He had never heard such beautiful music. He closed his eyes and started playing. The music transported him to a different place, to a different time. He was no longer in the ghetto. He was not hungry, he was not soaking wet, and he was not wearing shabby rags. He was the richest man in the world. When Feivel stopped playing, he opened his eyes. Everyone in the room was staring at him in amazement. Several fellow deportees from the street had entered the room to hear him play. People who were hungry, sick, and infested with lice simply stood there with smiles on their faces. They, too, had been carried away by his violin playing. Feivel’s Ukrainian landlord appeared and shooed away all of the strangers. “You really play nicely,” he said. “Do you know how to play Ukrainian music? I could recommend you to play at a wedding.” “I play everything.” Feivel stretched the truth, eager to secure employment. Feivel played that wedding. In exchange for his services received a five-pound loaf of bread to take home. When Feivel returned to Shargorod, he immediately went to see Judge Robinson to give him a quarter of the loaf. He was determined to honor the judge’s wishes that he share everything he made playing the Amati. Feivel arrived at the judge’s house only to learn that Justice Robinson and his two sisters had been taken to the cemetery the day before. They had poisoned themselves. They simply could not bear another day of starving and freezing in the ghetto. Feivel could not help but wonder if they were better off dead than he was alive. He brought the violin to his chin and accompanied himself while singing “El Malei Rachamim,” the traditional Jewish prayer of remembrance. Feivel quickly became popular among Romanian officers and Ukrainian peasants looking for entertainment. He was happy to play in exchange for food that he could bring home to his family. Feivel continued to play the violin for the next three-and-a-half years. By doing so, he was able to earn enough food, water, and precious firewood to sustain himself and sixteen family members and friends for the remainder of the Holocaust. Feivel would also play the violin in the ghetto, bringing comfort to himself as well as to his friends and family members by performing Jewish melodies that they all remembered from their childhoods. Among these was “My Yiddishe Momme,” which had been a favorite of Feivel’s own mother. (Applause) [Performance: “My Yiddishe Momme”] (Applause) Dr. James A. Grymes: One of the most dramatic stories in Violins of Hope is that of a twelve-year-old Ukrainian boy named Motele Schlein. In 1942, Motele’s father, mother, and little sister were murdered by the Nazis. Motele escaped to the forest, where he joined the legendary partisan brigade known as Uncle Misha’s Jewish Group. In August 1943, Motele infiltrated a Nazi Soldiers Club in the Ukrainian town of Ovruch. The Soldiers Club was one of many restaurants that the Germans had appropriated as havens for soldiers on their way to the perilous Eastern Front. It was a place where they could strengthen their resolve with great music, gourmet food, French wine, and pretty Ukrainian waitresses who served them in more ways than one. While playing his violin, Motele was able to track the numbers of units and the types of uniforms worn by German soldiers on their way to the front. He also eavesdropped on the conversations of the few who returned. Between lunch and dinner he surveilled the streets of Ovruch, taking note of everything for his reports to the partisans. Despite impossible conditions, young Motele was somehow able to conceal his disdain for the Nazis. He even earned their trust and friendship. A regional commandant who spent every evening at the Soldiers Club went so far as to have a little German uniform and cap tailored for Motele, to the delight of the other employees at the Soldiers Club. Motele also discovered that the fat cook would prepare his best dishes in exchange for performances of his favorite song, “Rose-Marie.” Motele dined in the kitchen, which was located in the basement of the Soldiers Club. He usually ate his lunches before playing in the afternoon and returned for his dinner after he was done every night. One day, on his way back upstairs after lunch, Motele noticed that one of the storerooms across the dimly lit hallway from the kitchen had been left open. He peered into the darkness and discovered a large cellar filled with empty wine cases, herring barrels, and other discarded items that had clearly been forgotten. On the wall opposite the doorway was a jagged crack, presumably the result of a nearby bomb explosion. Motele, who had heard numerous tales of sabotage from other members of Uncle Misha’s Jewish Group, stopped in his tracks. He realized that if he filled that crack with explosives he could blow up the Soldiers Club and kill all of the Germans inside. One evening, after finishing his dinner and saying good night to the cook, Motele crept into the storeroom. He hid his instrument inside an empty barrel and left the Soldiers Club with an empty violin case. When he returned the next day, his case had a few pounds of explosives hidden inside. After his lunch, he snuck into the storeroom and swapped the explosives for his violin. Motele repeated this process over the next several days, until he had successfully hidden all forty pounds of explosives in the cellar. Whenever he could, Motele would return to the storeroom to break off the stones that surrounded the crack in the wall and replace them with the deadly material. When he had packed all of the explosives into the wall, he inserted the capsule detonator and the long wick that the partisans had given him. He hid everything behind a pile of garbage. At the same time, Motele was working on an escape plan. Every day, he would visit the river that borders Ovruch, pretending to be fishing or swimming while actually looking for an area that would be shallow enough for him to cross during his getaway. On his way to and from the lake, he would note the streets and gardens through which he would have to run on his flight out of town. The only aspect of the plan that remained unresolved was when to detonate the bomb. The perfect opportunity finally presented itself when a division of the SS came through Ovruch on their way to try to salvage the increasingly hopeless situation on the Eastern Front. At around three in the afternoon, their cars and motorcycles began to arrive at the Soldiers Club. The restaurant quickly filled with high-ranking SS officers in their formal attire. Motele’s violin and the piano accompaniment could barely be heard above the din of clanking dishes, clinking glasses, and loud laughter. Motele and the pianist were forbidden from taking any breaks as the guests got drunker and as the cigar smoke thickened. Motele’s fingers ached from the nonstop playing and his eyes burned from all the cigar smoke. But he continued to play. “I’m playing for you for the last time,” he thought to himself as he smiled at his applauding audience. “Eat, drink, and be merry, you accursed Germans. These are your final hours.” It was not until eleven that night that the pianist finally convinced the manager to let him and Motele relinquish the responsibility for entertaining the officers to the guests who could play the piano. Motele went downstairs to the kitchen, where he told the cook that he was too tired to eat his dinner after playing the violin for eight hours straight. He left the kitchen and entered the hallway. Groping around in the darkness, Motele found the storeroom door and quietly closed it behind him. Using the dim light from a small grated window as a guide, he located the detonator and ignited it. He hastily ran out of the cellar, down the hallway, and up the stairs. Slowing as he approached the soldier who guarded the exit, he extended his right arm and proclaimed a sarcastic “Heil, Hitler!” The guard, familiar with the affable young violinist in his little soldier’s uniform, amusedly responded, “Ach, you little Ukrainian swine!” And Motele vanished into the darkness. After running for two hundred feet, Motele heard a violent explosion behind him. The ground shook and windowpanes shattered. He heard police whistles and sirens and saw red flares illuminate the sky over Ovruch. Terrified and euphoric at the same time, Motele hid himself from view by flattening his body against the buildings as he escaped. He ran into the river, holding his violin above his head with both hands to protect it from the cold water that reached up to his neck. Glancing backward, he saw an enormous fireball shooting into the sky. When Motele reached the other side of the lake, five armed partisans from Uncle Misha’s Jewish Group plucked him out of the water and into their wagon. They quickly disappeared back into the safety of the woods. For a few minutes, Motele was speechless, overwhelmed by the success of his mission. Then, raising his clenched fists to the red sky, he declared in a trembling voice, “That is for my parents and my little sister!” Zog nit keynmol is widely recognized as “The Partisan Song.” Its melody is derived from a pre-war Soviet march, but its lyrics were composed in 1943 by Hirsh Glick, who had been confined to the Vilna Ghetto. Glick penned the text as a reaction to the news of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising, when a group of Jewish fighters rebelled against their Nazi captors. Although the Jewish combatants were ultimately too poorly armed to defeat the German forces, their heroic efforts inspired Glick to incite others to continue fighting. The partisan song became something of an anthem for spiritual resistance in ghettos and concentration camps, as well as for Jewish partisans such as Uncle Misha and Motele. The song begins: Never say that you have reached the end of the road, Though leaden skies may obscure the light of day. The hour that we all long for will indeed come, When our steps will beat out the message: “We are here!” (Applause) [Performance: “Zog nit keynmol”] (Applause) Dr. James A. Grymes: The last instrument I write about in Violins of Hope once belonged to Shimon Krongold, an amateur violinist whose accomplished daughter had played with the Warsaw Philharmonic. Shimon’s brother Chaim immigrated to Palestine in 1923, never to see Shimon again. Chaim married and raised two children, who knew little about their uncle Shimon beyond what they could glean from an old picture of him holding his beloved violin. Chaim heard that Shimon escaped from Warsaw to Russia and then to Tashkent, Uzbekistan. Later, he learned that Shimon had died of typhus in Tashkent. In 1946, a man visited Chaim’s apartment in Jerusalem to bring him Shimon’s violin. The violin stayed with the Krongold family in Jerusalem as one of their only remembrances of Shimon. Chaim’s son Nadir later traveled to Tashkent to try to find his uncle’s grave, but even the Jewish community there was unable to uncover any information about him. All that is left of Shimon is the photograph of him with the violin and the instrument itself. “This is the only memory that we have from him,” Nadir explains. “The only memory and the only story about his life.” In September 1999, Amnon gave an interview on the radio about Motele Schlein’s Violin. He asked listeners to contact him if they knew of any other instruments that were connected to the Holocaust. Nadir and his sister Edna responded by bringing him their uncle’s violin. After comparing the photograph of Shimon with the instrument, Amnon was able to verify that this was indeed Shimon Krongold’s Violin. The biggest surprise came when Amnon peered into one of the violin’s F-shaped sound holes. Attached to the inside of the instrument is a label that reads in a combination of Hebrew and Yiddish: “This violin I made to commemorate my loyal friend Mr. Shimon Krongold, Warsaw, 1924.” The dedication is signed by Yaakov Zimmerman. Amnon was holding in his hands an instrument that was made by the very same man who had taught his father how to repair violins more than sixty years earlier. The circle was complete. Shmerke Kaczerginski was a poet and partisan from Vilna who, like Amnon’s father Moshe, struggled with the memories of so many lost relatives and friends. Shortly after the Holocaust, he composed the lyrics to “Zol shoyn kumen di geh-oo-le” to a melody by Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook. In spite of all of the death and destruction, Kaczerginski held on to his hope and optimism for a better future for his people. The song begins: When you’re feeling low, take a little drink! If sorrow persists, then let’s sing a song. If there is no whiskey, we can drink water. Fresh water is life itself, and what more does a Jew need? Let our redemption come, The Messiah is coming soon! (Applause) [Performance: “Zol shoyn kumen di geule”] (Applause) Dr. James A. Grymes: For every violin that is recovered, there are thousands that may never be returned to the families of their previous owners. This includes dozens of instruments that Amnon has collected while scouring the world for violins with connections to the Holocaust. While the instruments have survived, information about the musicians who once played them has not. There is simply no way of tracking down the original owners—if those violinists or anyone in their family even survived the Holocaust. While their owners are unknown, the craftsmanship of their construction and the ornate Stars of David they bear indicate that they were once owned by Jewish musicians. Amnon has deduced that some of the unclaimed instruments were played in ghettos and concentration camps, based on distinctive damage to the tops of the violins that comes only from being played outside in the wind, rain, and snow—something no musician would have ever done unless he was forced to do so under extraordinary conditions. Auschwitz Main Camp violinist Teodor Liese once spoke of liters of water pouring out of his instrument while the orchestra was performing in the rain. One of the instruments was damaged beyond repair. Amnon has left it in the ruined state in which he found it, as a testament to the thousands of other instruments and the millions of lives that were shattered in the Holocaust. Amnon considers the unidentified violins to be the most precious instruments in his collection. They are not expensive instruments like the Ole Bull Guarneri that Ernst Glaser brought to Bergen or the Amati that Feivel Wininger played in Transnistria. They are simple, unsophisticated violins that represent the everyday Jewish lives and the everyday Jewish traditions that were destroyed during the Holocaust. They are artifacts of the Jewish culture that the Nazis tried unsuccessfully to wipe off the planet. To Amnon, the historical and sentimental value of these instruments far surpasses any monetary worth. Amnon has never known the names of any of his uncles, aunts, and cousins who died in the Holocaust. Since they were buried in mass graves, there are no graveyards to help him piece together his genealogy. There are no family records, nor surviving relatives whom he can visit to learn the stories about the family members that his parents had been too grief-stricken to talk about. His only way of connecting with his family is through the craft his father taught him: repairing violins. And so Amnon continues to collect and restore instruments that were played by Jewish musicians during the Holocaust. Each violin tells its own story. Each violin is a tombstone for a relative he never knew. (Applause)