Pöchmüller was finally released from detention in July 1947, and immediately began the fight to rehabilitate his reputation. In the fall of 1947, he confronted Dr. Michel about his false claims, which had been in the press for two years. On December 15, 1947, Michel wrote to the Austrian ministry, detailing Pöchmüller’s true role at Altaussee. (Michel later recanted this statement, the only true one he ever made about Altaussee.) 12 Mayerhoffer, the engineer with whom he’d planned the palsy, confirmed Pöchmüller was a patriot and hero. A police investigation at the mine found no abuse of power or Nazi activity by its director. The archbishop of Vienna appealed for clemency on his behalf, and his official file in the Austrian government acknowledged that he had “taken an invaluable part in saving the art treasures.” 13 Nonetheless, Pöchmüller’s petition for an Act of Mercy (dismissal of charges for illegal Nazi activity) was turned down in 1949. It had been supported all the way to the office of the president, where it was summarily dismissed. Those who had benefited from the false stories of Altaussee had been working behind the scenes to defeat the petition.
Without the Act of Mercy, Pöchmüller was unable to work. He had joined the Nazi Party in 1932 and in 1934 was named an honorary member of the National Socialist Motor Corps, a division of mostly apolitical industrialists and businessmen. Because of this membership, he was barred from employment in Austria and Germany. In 1950, the German courts ruled that those bearing this honorary position were to be taken off the rolls of ex-Nazis, freeing Pöchmüller to seek employment. The stigma remained, however, and he was unable to find steady work. Unemployed, vilified, and impoverished, his health deteriorated.
Finally, a small publisher agreed to publish his book, World Art Treasures in Danger, which he had unsuccessfully self-published in 1948. Karl Sieber supported him, writing that “all facts described in this report are, as far as I have been present, true. Because the events which I have not been present at, but which correspond with the reports of different people I am aware of, I come to the conclusion that Engineer Dr. E. Pöchmüller has tried his utmost to write an absolutely objective, truthful report.” 14 Nobody cared. Hardly any copies of the book were printed, and today it is very difficult to find (but not impossible, as we eventually discovered).
Devastated and bitter, Pöchmüller filed a lawsuit under an Austrian law that anyone who had saved artwork for a third party could claim 10 percent of its value as a reward. Although he publicly stated he did not want the money, only an Act of Mercy and public recognition of his role in rescuing the art treasures, he was castigated by the press and other interested parties—like Dr. Michel—as greedy and selfish.
Throughout the 1950s, he continued to lodge lawsuits in an attempt to clear his name, with limited success. In 1954, he was categorized as “less guilty,” making him eligible for employment in his former profession. He finally found a job in 1955, but in Germany, not his beloved Austria. He made a last attempt to clear his name in 1959, writing to the Austrian government that “I would like my efforts for rescuing the art treasures to be officially recognized so that my wish (for family reasons) of being able to work in an appropriate position in Austria again is met. For this I am prepared to waive everything else.” He never heard back.
Dr. Emmerich Pöchmüller died of a heart attack in 1963, having never received recognition of his accomplishments or freedom from suspicion and censor. His long fight for justice had broken him, body and soul.
Dr. Hermann Michel, meanwhile, did not escape unscathed. Although he was restored to his old job as director of the Natural History Museum Vienna, he was always viewed with suspicion. In 1945, he had convinced the Ministry of Education that he had joined the Nazi Party “to be able to easily carry out his work for the resistance movement at the museum.” 15 The Ministry of the Interior was not convinced, and placed him on the ex-Nazi list in 1947.
In 1948, after the accounts by Pöchmüller surfaced, Michel was ordered to explain in writing his actions at Altaussee. Michel delayed writing the account until 1950, and then only turned in a partial draft. When asked why, he claimed that Pöchmüller, who he said greedily wanted the reward money from the rescue for himself, was threatening him.
The report was never filed with the government, but the effort to maintain his vast complex of lies finally wore Michel down. He began to lash out at his acquaintances, and even sued a fellow curator claiming he had stolen from the museum. The judge, in finding the man not guilty, said that “regarding the witness, Court Counselor Dr. Michel, one thing has to be clearly stated. This witness has evidentially made false statements. He also tried to influence another witness and is therefore guilty of incitement to perjury.”
Michel was placed on administrative leave in December 1951 while the accusations were investigated. In May 1952, he was forced into early retirement. He died in October 1965. Although he had left in disgrace, the Natural History Museum—trying desperately to clear the shame of its racist Nazi past—claimed in 1987 that “Dr. Michel together with the freedom fighters prevented the destruction of the art treasures [at Altaussee].” 16
Meanwhile, in France, Jacques Jaujard was hailed as a national hero for his role in protecting the state collections from the Nazis. He was named a Commander of the Legion of Honor, received the Medal of Resistance and was promoted to the secretary-general of cultural affairs in the post-occupation French government of André Malraux. When he retired to the Académie des Beaux-Arts in 1955, his predecessor praised him as a defender of the arts, saying, “He faces the future with the marvelous trail of all the masterpieces he has preserved.” 17
In contrast to many other prominent museum figures in France, Jaujard never wrote about his service as director of the French National Museums during World War II, or of his role in saving the French patrimony. He was firm in his discretion and his belief that those who remained silent probably did more than those who spoke publicly of their actions. His only known written account of the war was a seven-page description of the service performed by Rose Valland during the German occupation of Paris. Whether it was written at her request or to counter questions about her heroism or actions is unclear. But clearly, he remained her advocate.
Jacques Jaujard died unexpectedly of a heart attack in 1967. He was seventy-two years old. Friend and famed historian André Chamson said in his memorium, “[His] transcendental moment took place during the years of occupation, [an] interminable moment of truth, when everything depended, in a heads or tails fashion, on courage and lucidity…. [He] fought like a soldier, with a clear mind, with a skillful persuasion, a servant of the duties he had added to the responsibilities of his position, already responsible in front of the liberated fatherland of the Republic that would be reborn.” 18 In 1974, a book of Jaujard’s philosophies was published in a limited printing. One was, “It matters little that you are afraid if you manage to hide it. You are then at the edge of courage.” Another: “There are fights that you may lose without losing your honor; what makes you lose your honor is not to fight them.” 19 His friend Albert Henraux, the French Resistance leader, cited Jaujard’s elegantly self-effacing motto for all Louvre employees: “Maintenir.” To Preserve. 20
Count Franz von Wolff-Metternich, the German Kunstschutz official who aided Jaujard in thwarting the Nazis, was also hailed as a hero by the French. After the war, he helped the Western Allies restitute German art. He then worked in the Foreign Office of West Germany tracking looted works. In 1952, Metternich became director of the esteemed Hertziana Library in Rome, a German library once confiscated by Hitler. He died in 1978.
Rose Valland, Jaujard’s collaborator, continued her forceful advocacy on behalf of the French cultural patrimony long after James Rorimer’s departure from Paris. On May 4, 1945, nearly a month after Rorimer’s assignment to U.S. Seventh Army, Valland received a commission in the French First Army. “Along the [German] roads,” she wrote, “I witnessed the heart-wrenching processions of refugees passing by like five year old ghosts from
the [evacuation of Paris in 1940]…. It was the same kind of misery…. Seeing them, I lost the very clear notion of the enemy that had sustained me until then. I learned that we are only truly able to savor victory after having left the horrors of war.” 21
She arrived at Neuschwanstein sometime between May 14 and 16, 1945, only a week and a half after Rorimer. Here, seemingly, was the endpoint of her journey, a place that had seemed so inaccessible as to be almost mythical during her years at the Jeu de Paume, but for which she had risked her life countless times. She got as far as the gate, where the American sentry, having no idea who she was, denied her admission. Rorimer had declared no one was to enter; no exceptions. Since the energetic Monuments Man was away on other business, there was no way to argue. Rose Valland was turned away from her own greatest achievement.
But only on this day. She remained in Germany for several years as a fine arts officer attached to French First Army. She loved the company of men, and there are numerous pictures of her at the MFAA collecting points in her captain’s uniform blending in with the male officers. She usually had a smile on her face and cigarette in hand.
Far from being the “shy, timid curator” depicted by history, Rose Valland was a tireless and vocal advocate for the restitution of artwork. She was able to blend into the background when necessary, but as when she challenged Bruno Lohse after he told her “you could be shot for any indiscretion,” 22 she was not afraid to question the methods and actions of anyone at any time. Upon returning home from Germany in 1951, Valland continued searching for looted French-owned works of art. Her success in this and other endeavors proved she was not a wilting flower, but a bold, strong-minded, courageous, and intelligent woman fired by a passion to fulfill the destiny fate and Jaujard had provided her in 1940.
For her efforts, Rose Valland received the French Legion of Honor and the Medal of Resistance. She was made a Commander of the Order of Arts and Letters, making her one of the most decorated women in France. She also received a Medal of Freedom from the United States in 1948, and an Officer’s Cross of the Order of Merit from the Federal Republic of Germany. In 1953, after twenty years of service to the French cultural establishment, she was finally awarded the position of “curator.” Her 1961 book Le Front de L’Art (The Battle for Art) was made into a 1965 movie entitled The Train, starring Burt Lancaster. The movie was a fictionalized account of the rescue of the art train; the Jeu de Paume and a character named “Mlle. Villard,” who was meant to portray Rose Valland, were only briefly mentioned.
Despite her decorations and medals, Rose Valland’s accomplishments were never widely known or admired in France. Partly this can be attributed to her background: She was a woman of little means from a small country town working in a field dominated by aristocratic men. The fact that, in Jaujard’s words, “Miss Valland took the calculated risk, in order to save from the war and then to recuperate tens of thousands of works of art, to give this information directly to an American,” 23 was for some French citizens a severe breach of protocol bordering on unpatriotic. Finally, many of her contemporaries came to resent her relentless pursuit of information about the Nazis and restitutions of stolen art. There was a period when many wanted to forget the horrible events of the war; Valland would never forget and never let it rest. Perhaps, despite Jaujard’s support, she was always doomed to be an outsider.
Rose Valland spent the last two decades of her life in relative quiet and died on September 18, 1980. After a viewing at Les Invalides in Paris, she was buried in a simple grave in her home village of Saint-Etienne-de-Saint-Geoirs. Her fellow Louvre curator Magdeleine Hours would later comment: 24
She received little understanding from her colleagues; she unleashed envy and passions, and we were few to show our admiration. On the day of her funeral at Les Invalides, the Director of the Musées de France administration, the Chief Curator of the drawing department and myself, with a few museum attendants, were practically the only ones present to show the respects that were due to her. This woman, who had risked her life so often and with such persistence, who had brought honor to the corps of curators and saved the property of so many collectors, was treated by many with indifference, if not hostility.
On April 27, 2005, fifty years after the end of the war, a plaque was finally placed on the south wall of the Jeu de Paume to commemorate Rose Valland’s extraordinary service and her commitment “to save a little bit of the beauty of the world.” 25
But if history and the people of France never truly understood and acknowledged her heroism, her fellow Monuments Men did. In the years to come, they would repeatedly describe Rose Valland as a great hero of the war and one of the few indispensable persons in the monuments preservation effort. Without her, they believed, the MFAA effort to locate not only the thousands of stolen works of art from France, but also the critically important ERR records, might never have succeeded.
Like Valland, the other Monuments Men continued to work for the preservation of art after the end of active hostilities, but their tours of duty were for the most part short-lived.
On August 21, 1945, the Ghent Altarpiece left the Munich Collecting Point for Belgium. It was the most important piece of artwork stolen by the Germans, and therefore the first returned. A special airplane was chartered, and the twelve panels of the altarpiece strapped down in the passenger compartment. There was only room for one other passenger: Monuments Man Robert Posey.
At 2:00 a.m. on August 22, the plane arrived at a British airfield in Belgium. It was supposed to land hours earlier at the Brussels airport, but a violent storm caused a change of plans. Instead of the grand reception the Belgian government had planned, the airfield was deserted. Posey telephoned an American officer, who shanghaied about twenty soldiers out of Belgian bars. The panels were unloaded in the driving rain and arrived at the Royal Palace in Brussels at 3:30 a.m. Posey left a few hours later, with a receipt for delivery. When he arrived back at U.S. Third Army headquarters after a brief stay in Paris, the commanding officer gave him his reward: the Order of Leopold, one of Belgium’s highest honors. The Belgian government had intended to give it to him at the arrival ceremony, but never got the chance. He was later awarded the French Legion of Honor.
That was Posey’s final lasting military achievement, however, for he found the post-combat work tedious and clashed with the newly arriving Monuments Men. In early May, before the end of fighting, he had scoffed at those back of the combat zone as “too low to even be thought of. If they are as far back as England they are simply civilians in a sort of uniform.” Now that Germany had become a “civilian” world, he felt lost. He agreed with the rigid discipline of his boss, General Patton, who insisted that breakfast for all the men of Third Army, including the Monuments Men, occur early in the morning during a narrow period of time, just as it had during combat. The newly arriving Monuments Men wanted to sleep late. Even worse, they hired a busty German secretary, when it was forbidden to hire German nationals (even buxom blondes); Posey fired her.
Posey left Europe in September 1945, a month after the return of the Ghent Altarpiece and three months before his mentor and idol General George S. Patton Jr. died of injuries suffered in a jeep accident near Mannheim, Germany, in December. By 1946, Posey had resumed his work as an architect, and began his career at the prominent firm Skidmore, Owings & Merrill. As a senior associate, he worked on such notable projects as the Union Carbide Building and Lever House in New York, and the Sears Tower in Chicago. He retired in 1974 and died in 1977.
His partner, Lincoln Kirstein, who had despaired of leaving “before my retirement pay starts,” 26 returned to America in September 1945 on a hardship waiver after his mother was diagnosed with cancer. In 1946, he and his business partner, the choreographer George Balanchine, established a new dance troupe, the Ballet Society (renamed the New York City Ballet in 1948), one of the most influential dance companies of the twentieth century. Kirstein served as its general director until 1989. The poems he composed whi
le in the army were published in 1964 as Rhymes of a PFC. Otherwise, he rarely spoke of his tour of duty in Europe, although he corresponded with Posey for several years and even entertained writing a book with him. He even encouraged George Stout to coauthor a book about the Monuments Men, stating, “It’s not a picture book, but a story.” 27 Far from viewing his role as glamorous, though, Kirstein often felt guilty that he had not faced more danger. He was the kind of man who struggled to find contentment in his many considerable achievements.
By the end of his life, Lincoln Kirstein was widely considered one of the major cultural figures of his generation, and perhaps its greatest patron of the arts. “He was one of those rare talents who touch the entire artistic life of their time,” wrote critic Clement Crisp. “Ballet, film, literature, theatre, painting, sculpture, photography all occupied his attention.” 28 In 1984, he was presented with the Presidential Medal of Freedom by Ronald Reagan. He also received the National Medal of Arts (1985), and, with Balanchine, the National Gold Medal of Merit Award from the National Society of Arts and Letters. Lincoln Kirstein died in 1996 at the age of eighty-eight.
Walker Hancock left Europe in late 1945, after establishing the Marburg Collecting Point. He returned home and built the house that he had spent so many months dreaming of while at war, and he and his new wife Saima lived and worked in Gloucester, Massachusetts, for the rest of their lives. He resumed teaching at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, remaining there until 1967. He also continued to be a sought-after sculptor, and his works include such monumental pieces as the famous carving of Confederate generals on the side of Stone Mountain outside Atlanta, Georgia. His most enduring work may be the Pennsylvania War Memorial, located in the 30th Street train station in Philadelphia. Completed in 1952, the piece is a tribute to the thirteen hundred railroad employees who died in World War II, and depicts a soldier lifted up by Michael, the archangel of resurrection. One of his last pieces was the official bust of President George H. W. Bush.