//end of the world//
Fall 2017
Gut Shabbes, Vienna
Gidon Halbfinger
“Gut shabbes!” I shouted, squinting as I looked upwards into the dark façade of the apartment building, trying to make out shapes in the soft light behind the windows. “Gut shabbes…”
I trailed off, feeling out of place. The street was dimly lit by streetlamps that were too far apart to do much good. The glistening buildings, the swooping architecture, and the sparkling sidewalks that had looked so grand by daylight were now imposing and foreboding. I heard faint shouts in a language I did not understand from a block over. I froze, silent. I heard rustling behind me, and whirled around. It was Tali, shifting nervously.
“Maybe we should try calling her again?” Tali asked.
Maybe. But I was not eager to brand myself a Jew. Not here, on these dark streets. Not here, where every palace, every mansion, every boulevard, was a reminder of the Jewish money that had once coursed through this city’s veins. The money, of course, had stayed—in the architecture, the art, the culture—but the people had been erased. Layers of white-out had covered over the crimson ink of their existence. Tali and I had come to see the Jewish life that had been revived here, more than 70 years after the Holocaust.
“Gut shabbes!” I tried one last time, as loud as I dared, kicking myself for agreeing to signal our arrival this way. “Gut shabbes, Perle!”
We saw two hands first, perched atop the windowsill, then a blonde head peeked out, catching the sparse glint of the streetlamps. “Gut shabbes?!” Perle’s voice rang out as she looked around, searching for us. “Gut shabbes!”
She came downstairs and opened the heavy wood and wrought-iron front door. We walked up the pitch-black staircase, and she threw open her apartment door. The soft light of Shabbat candles shone through the doorway, a portal into a different world from the one we had just left. The table was set and cloaked in white; Perle’s mother, wearing a tichel and holding a sheitel under her arm, beamed at us and strode forward.
“Welcome!” she exclaimed in ever so slightly German-inflected English. “Welcome to Vienna. ”
***
The history of Vienna and of Austrian Jews have been deeply intertwined since early modernity. Two Viennese Jews—Samson Wertheimer and Samuel Oppenheimer—financed the Austrian army in the years following 1683, warding off an Ottoman siege of the city and influencing one of the most pivotal points in modern European history. In fact, Jewish history in Vienna goes back as far as 1194, but Jewish presence in Vienna in those early years was transient and unstable. Those first Jews were wiped out by Crusaders soon after arriving, and though another wave of Jewish migrants would follow them, they too were slaughtered or expelled in 1421. Synagogues were burned down; the University of Vienna built a new building with stones from the wreckage. Again the Jews returned, and in 1670 they were again expelled. Over time, they were allowed back, beginning with specific exemptions for Jews with special permits, generally granted to the families of those serving in official capacities. It was only by dint of these exemptions that Wertheimer and Oppenheimer could even live in the city they saved from invasion.
Beginning with Emperor Joseph II’s 1782 “Edict of Tolerance,” Jews were gradually welcomed into society—up to a point. The Edict required that Jews adopt German, rather than Hebrew or Yiddish, as their lingua franca if they wanted to enjoy their increased rights and it also continued to forbid public worship. In a sense, then, Jews were accepted in Viennese society only up to the extent that they left their Judaism at home.
Conditions did gradually improve. In 1812, Emperor Francis I issued a permit for a school and a prayer house on Seitenstettengasse, and in 1825, the Stadttempel—Vienna’s main synagogue—was finally built on that spot, where it stands to this day. Finally, in 1852, the government granted the Jewish community in Vienna official status as a Kultusgemeinde, allowing them the legal privileges of any other religious community. Discrimination against Jews in Vienna did not simply fade away—the Austrian reforms were tempered by the efforts of Karl Lueger, the rabidly anti-Jewish mayor of Vienna at the time—but still, Jews blossomed.
As the industrial revolution hit full swing at the turn of the 20th century, Jews were at the forefront of development in Vienna. They owned department stores, managed wealthy businesses, and maintained a foothold amongst the intellectual and social elite. In 1930, the Jews of Vienna counted Sigmund Freud and Arnold Schoenberg among their ranks. It was the golden age of Viennese Jewry.
***
A Jewish woman stared back at me. Her face, striking against the sharp, simple lines of the wall behind her, was pale and sorrowful. Even as her lips curved upwards into a faint smile, her eyes looked tired and worried. Perhaps this was me, projecting what would come later onto this single shining moment in 1906. Or perhaps Fritza Reidler’s face truly was creased with weariness as Gustav Klimt painted her portrait all those years ago.
The Belvedere palaces, once home to Habsburg monarchs, now house one of the greatest art collections in the world, including many of Klimt’s works. Along with several other Viennese artists, Klimt forms the backbone of an awe-inspiring permanent collection that is a point of pride for Austrians, the crown jewel of Vienna’s culture.
But the Vienna that these artists captured was not just Austrian—it was markedly Jewish. And while the Jews peering out of the portraits on the walls of the Belvedere might have felt irrevocably Austrian, many of their children would be placed in ghettos, expelled, or murdered. There’s no question that watching Woman in Gold the night before visiting the museum caused my mind to wander in that direction, as the movie charts a Jewish woman’s quest to recover Klimt’s portrait of her aunt, Adele Bloch Bauer, from the Belvedere—against the wishes of the Austrian government, which considers the portrait a national treasure.
Lost in my thoughts, I turned the corner and came face to face with death itself. Egon Schiele’s portraits hanging on the wall are grotesque, bodies twisted, faces reminiscent of skulls. Schiele was Klimt’s protégé, but his style takes a turn for the morbid. It is an unnerving juxtaposition: the skeletal, emaciated figures of Schiele next to romantic seascapes and impressionist still lifes. While Monet depicts his The Chef with a friendly, knowing face, Schiele’s subjects are distorted and dark. The profound beauty contained within the Belvedere’s walls belies the hideous shapes that lie within some of its rooms. Much like the history of Vienna itself, the museum captures both splendor and horror within its walls.
Between those two extremes—Schiele on one hand and the romantics and impressionists on the other—lies Klimt, the Belvedere’s favorite son. In the absence of the Portrait of Adele Bloch Bauer, the unquestioned piece-de-resistance of the collection at the Belvedere is The Kiss, Klimt’s gilded masterpiece. It depicts a moment of absolute passion, a man bending over to kiss a woman as she kneels on a bed of flowers. Yet there is a darkness to the piece. Where the light does not strike the gold leaf of the woman’s dress, she appears to be melting into darkness. The man’s face is hidden and dark; the woman is deathly thin. I cannot help but wonder if The Kiss captures precisely what I feel about Vienna, a city so beautiful, but with ghastly secrets buried in its past. Perhaps it is no accident that the centerpiece of the Belvedere is not a beautiful romantic piece, nor a twisted Schiele portrait, but instead something in between: this bittersweet Klimt.
Woman in Gold has a happy ending: Maria Altmann wins her case and brings the golden portrait of her aunt to the United States. At the Belvedere, however, it feel as though the hole left by the missing painting has been covered up. Adele Bloch Bauer may no longer grace the walls of the palace, but the cult of Klimt continues unabated. Pamphlets advertising current exhibitions bear his art. Banners proudly display his name. The special exhibition promises a view into his lesser-known works. “Vienna owns Klimt!” the museum seems to scream. There is no hint of that Jewish woman who fled to Los Angeles.
After a whirlwind several hours, I stepped out of the Belvedere’s exhibits and towards the exit. I was astonished at how thoroughly the Woman in Gold had been written out of Klimt’s—and the museum’s —legacy.
Just then, a glittering poster in the corner of the busy room caught my eye. While Klimt’s Portrait of Adele Bloch Bauer now resides in the Neue Galerie in New York, one can purchase prints of the painting for €7.90 in the Belvedere gift shop. As I unwrap one, I hear the museum whisper to me, “She’s still here. We own her, too.”
***
In the 1930s, it all came crashing down. Anti-Semitism arose in full force. Jews were pushed out of social life and discriminated against in business dealings. The murder of philosopher Moritz Schlick at the University of Vienna catalyzed public discussions that targeted Jews.
In March 1938, Hitler’s army marched into Austria and annexed it without resistance in an event known as the Anschluss.
In November, a pogrom took place. Jewish shops were looted. Synagogues were destroyed. The Stadttempel survived, likely because its proximity to other buildings made it impossible to burn safely.
In 1938, roughly 181,000 Jews lived in Vienna. By March 1939, 130,000 remained. Over the next six years, more than 65,000 of those who remained would be murdered.
***
“Come,” the tall man said simply, icy blue eyes piercing the dark background of his black hat and long coat. He turned and strode confidently out of the Stadttempel and turned left along the cobbled streets with Tali and me in tow.
We rounded the corner. There was a light breeze, refreshing in the August heat. The Judengasse (German for ‘Jewish alley’) was busy with congregants who had just finished Shabbat morning services in the synagogue. We passed the kosher restaurant nestled in the corner of the synagogue building. Children were playing just outside the restaurant, curly sidelocks floating on the breeze, black velvet kippot perched atop their heads, black vests and white shirts completing the costume. The children, clearly familiar with the imposing sight of the man before us, called out to him.
“Rabbiner! Rabbiner!”
The rabbi slowed, just for a second, and gave them a small, gentle smile, his icy eyes and handsome face conveying genuine warmth. We were nearing the entrance to his apartment, where Perle and her mother had arranged for us to eat Shabbat lunch. Before we entered, though, the rabbi paused, and looked back towards his adoring fans, who were still playing on the cobblestones.
“Gut shabbes,” he said.
I trailed off, feeling out of place. The street was dimly lit by streetlamps that were too far apart to do much good. The glistening buildings, the swooping architecture, and the sparkling sidewalks that had looked so grand by daylight were now imposing and foreboding. I heard faint shouts in a language I did not understand from a block over. I froze, silent. I heard rustling behind me, and whirled around. It was Tali, shifting nervously.
“Maybe we should try calling her again?” Tali asked.
Maybe. But I was not eager to brand myself a Jew. Not here, on these dark streets. Not here, where every palace, every mansion, every boulevard, was a reminder of the Jewish money that had once coursed through this city’s veins. The money, of course, had stayed—in the architecture, the art, the culture—but the people had been erased. Layers of white-out had covered over the crimson ink of their existence. Tali and I had come to see the Jewish life that had been revived here, more than 70 years after the Holocaust.
“Gut shabbes!” I tried one last time, as loud as I dared, kicking myself for agreeing to signal our arrival this way. “Gut shabbes, Perle!”
We saw two hands first, perched atop the windowsill, then a blonde head peeked out, catching the sparse glint of the streetlamps. “Gut shabbes?!” Perle’s voice rang out as she looked around, searching for us. “Gut shabbes!”
She came downstairs and opened the heavy wood and wrought-iron front door. We walked up the pitch-black staircase, and she threw open her apartment door. The soft light of Shabbat candles shone through the doorway, a portal into a different world from the one we had just left. The table was set and cloaked in white; Perle’s mother, wearing a tichel and holding a sheitel under her arm, beamed at us and strode forward.
“Welcome!” she exclaimed in ever so slightly German-inflected English. “Welcome to Vienna. ”
***
The history of Vienna and of Austrian Jews have been deeply intertwined since early modernity. Two Viennese Jews—Samson Wertheimer and Samuel Oppenheimer—financed the Austrian army in the years following 1683, warding off an Ottoman siege of the city and influencing one of the most pivotal points in modern European history. In fact, Jewish history in Vienna goes back as far as 1194, but Jewish presence in Vienna in those early years was transient and unstable. Those first Jews were wiped out by Crusaders soon after arriving, and though another wave of Jewish migrants would follow them, they too were slaughtered or expelled in 1421. Synagogues were burned down; the University of Vienna built a new building with stones from the wreckage. Again the Jews returned, and in 1670 they were again expelled. Over time, they were allowed back, beginning with specific exemptions for Jews with special permits, generally granted to the families of those serving in official capacities. It was only by dint of these exemptions that Wertheimer and Oppenheimer could even live in the city they saved from invasion.
Beginning with Emperor Joseph II’s 1782 “Edict of Tolerance,” Jews were gradually welcomed into society—up to a point. The Edict required that Jews adopt German, rather than Hebrew or Yiddish, as their lingua franca if they wanted to enjoy their increased rights and it also continued to forbid public worship. In a sense, then, Jews were accepted in Viennese society only up to the extent that they left their Judaism at home.
Conditions did gradually improve. In 1812, Emperor Francis I issued a permit for a school and a prayer house on Seitenstettengasse, and in 1825, the Stadttempel—Vienna’s main synagogue—was finally built on that spot, where it stands to this day. Finally, in 1852, the government granted the Jewish community in Vienna official status as a Kultusgemeinde, allowing them the legal privileges of any other religious community. Discrimination against Jews in Vienna did not simply fade away—the Austrian reforms were tempered by the efforts of Karl Lueger, the rabidly anti-Jewish mayor of Vienna at the time—but still, Jews blossomed.
As the industrial revolution hit full swing at the turn of the 20th century, Jews were at the forefront of development in Vienna. They owned department stores, managed wealthy businesses, and maintained a foothold amongst the intellectual and social elite. In 1930, the Jews of Vienna counted Sigmund Freud and Arnold Schoenberg among their ranks. It was the golden age of Viennese Jewry.
***
A Jewish woman stared back at me. Her face, striking against the sharp, simple lines of the wall behind her, was pale and sorrowful. Even as her lips curved upwards into a faint smile, her eyes looked tired and worried. Perhaps this was me, projecting what would come later onto this single shining moment in 1906. Or perhaps Fritza Reidler’s face truly was creased with weariness as Gustav Klimt painted her portrait all those years ago.
The Belvedere palaces, once home to Habsburg monarchs, now house one of the greatest art collections in the world, including many of Klimt’s works. Along with several other Viennese artists, Klimt forms the backbone of an awe-inspiring permanent collection that is a point of pride for Austrians, the crown jewel of Vienna’s culture.
But the Vienna that these artists captured was not just Austrian—it was markedly Jewish. And while the Jews peering out of the portraits on the walls of the Belvedere might have felt irrevocably Austrian, many of their children would be placed in ghettos, expelled, or murdered. There’s no question that watching Woman in Gold the night before visiting the museum caused my mind to wander in that direction, as the movie charts a Jewish woman’s quest to recover Klimt’s portrait of her aunt, Adele Bloch Bauer, from the Belvedere—against the wishes of the Austrian government, which considers the portrait a national treasure.
Lost in my thoughts, I turned the corner and came face to face with death itself. Egon Schiele’s portraits hanging on the wall are grotesque, bodies twisted, faces reminiscent of skulls. Schiele was Klimt’s protégé, but his style takes a turn for the morbid. It is an unnerving juxtaposition: the skeletal, emaciated figures of Schiele next to romantic seascapes and impressionist still lifes. While Monet depicts his The Chef with a friendly, knowing face, Schiele’s subjects are distorted and dark. The profound beauty contained within the Belvedere’s walls belies the hideous shapes that lie within some of its rooms. Much like the history of Vienna itself, the museum captures both splendor and horror within its walls.
Between those two extremes—Schiele on one hand and the romantics and impressionists on the other—lies Klimt, the Belvedere’s favorite son. In the absence of the Portrait of Adele Bloch Bauer, the unquestioned piece-de-resistance of the collection at the Belvedere is The Kiss, Klimt’s gilded masterpiece. It depicts a moment of absolute passion, a man bending over to kiss a woman as she kneels on a bed of flowers. Yet there is a darkness to the piece. Where the light does not strike the gold leaf of the woman’s dress, she appears to be melting into darkness. The man’s face is hidden and dark; the woman is deathly thin. I cannot help but wonder if The Kiss captures precisely what I feel about Vienna, a city so beautiful, but with ghastly secrets buried in its past. Perhaps it is no accident that the centerpiece of the Belvedere is not a beautiful romantic piece, nor a twisted Schiele portrait, but instead something in between: this bittersweet Klimt.
Woman in Gold has a happy ending: Maria Altmann wins her case and brings the golden portrait of her aunt to the United States. At the Belvedere, however, it feel as though the hole left by the missing painting has been covered up. Adele Bloch Bauer may no longer grace the walls of the palace, but the cult of Klimt continues unabated. Pamphlets advertising current exhibitions bear his art. Banners proudly display his name. The special exhibition promises a view into his lesser-known works. “Vienna owns Klimt!” the museum seems to scream. There is no hint of that Jewish woman who fled to Los Angeles.
After a whirlwind several hours, I stepped out of the Belvedere’s exhibits and towards the exit. I was astonished at how thoroughly the Woman in Gold had been written out of Klimt’s—and the museum’s —legacy.
Just then, a glittering poster in the corner of the busy room caught my eye. While Klimt’s Portrait of Adele Bloch Bauer now resides in the Neue Galerie in New York, one can purchase prints of the painting for €7.90 in the Belvedere gift shop. As I unwrap one, I hear the museum whisper to me, “She’s still here. We own her, too.”
***
In the 1930s, it all came crashing down. Anti-Semitism arose in full force. Jews were pushed out of social life and discriminated against in business dealings. The murder of philosopher Moritz Schlick at the University of Vienna catalyzed public discussions that targeted Jews.
In March 1938, Hitler’s army marched into Austria and annexed it without resistance in an event known as the Anschluss.
In November, a pogrom took place. Jewish shops were looted. Synagogues were destroyed. The Stadttempel survived, likely because its proximity to other buildings made it impossible to burn safely.
In 1938, roughly 181,000 Jews lived in Vienna. By March 1939, 130,000 remained. Over the next six years, more than 65,000 of those who remained would be murdered.
***
“Come,” the tall man said simply, icy blue eyes piercing the dark background of his black hat and long coat. He turned and strode confidently out of the Stadttempel and turned left along the cobbled streets with Tali and me in tow.
We rounded the corner. There was a light breeze, refreshing in the August heat. The Judengasse (German for ‘Jewish alley’) was busy with congregants who had just finished Shabbat morning services in the synagogue. We passed the kosher restaurant nestled in the corner of the synagogue building. Children were playing just outside the restaurant, curly sidelocks floating on the breeze, black velvet kippot perched atop their heads, black vests and white shirts completing the costume. The children, clearly familiar with the imposing sight of the man before us, called out to him.
“Rabbiner! Rabbiner!”
The rabbi slowed, just for a second, and gave them a small, gentle smile, his icy eyes and handsome face conveying genuine warmth. We were nearing the entrance to his apartment, where Perle and her mother had arranged for us to eat Shabbat lunch. Before we entered, though, the rabbi paused, and looked back towards his adoring fans, who were still playing on the cobblestones.
“Gut shabbes,” he said.
//Gidon Halbfinger is a junior in Columbia College. He can be reached at gmh2131@columbia.edu.