Source: European Parliament
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Corrie Hermann. – Dear President of the European Parliament, dear Roberta Metsola, dear Presidents, dear Members, Commissioners, excellencies, distinguished guests, this story about one Holocaust victim is dedicated to every one of the 6 million victims whom we deplore today.
My father, Hermann Pál, was born on 27 March 1902 in Budapest, in a well-to-do family. At the time, Budapest was still the second capital of the Habsburg Empire – the era which Stefan Zweig depicts in Die Welt von Gestern. The Jewish citizenry had become gradually an integral part of the community, and joined intensively in the professional, cultural and financial life.
Hermann Pál was intelligent and musical, and was admitted, at the age of 15, as a cello student at the famous Franz Liszt Academy, established in 1875 – the cradle of many generations of top musicians from Hungary. His best friend became the violinist Székely Zoltán, who would become a worldwide-known soloist and the first violinist of the New Hungarian String Quartet. Pál developed not only as a cellist but also as a composer. His teachers were Kodály and Bartók.
Even before the formal completion of his training, he reaped his first success in a private concert at the house of Arnold Schönberg with the ‘Sonata for Cello Solo’, which Kodály had composed a few years earlier. A performance of this sonata at a concert in Switzerland, which was organised by the International Society of Contemporary Music, was the first step in his international career.
But in the meantime, the First World War had raged in Europe. The Habsburg Empire was no more. Hungary’s wings had been clipped by the Trianon Treaty, and the new leader, Admiral Horthy, was the first one to introduce antisemitic laws. The young cellist went to Berlin and changed his name from the Hungarian Hermann Pál to Paul Hermann.
In Berlin, musical life was blooming. Paul took lessons at the Staatliche Academische Hochschule für Musik. To earn a living, he became a teacher at the progressive Volksmusikschule Berlin-Neukölln and he played in all kinds of ensembles: Baroque music, the great classics – Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven – and contemporary compositions by Hindemith, Ernst Toch and, of course, Kodály and Bartók.
The tie with Zoltán Székely was to endure all his life. Zoltán had settled in the Netherlands. Together they gave concerts which were favourably reviewed in the Netherlands, Germany and England. In London they stayed often at the house of a Dutch couple, Jacob de Graaff and Louise Bachiene. De Graaff was a wealthy businessman. He and his wife were lovers of art and music, and liked to entertain young artists. They admired the two musicians so much that in 1927 they bought a Stradivarius violin for Zoltán and, in 1928, a Gagliano cello for Paul. That cello has a leading part in this story.
Louise de Graaff corresponded frequently with relations in the Netherlands, and when Paul Hermann was scheduled to play in Amsterdam, she urged her young niece, Ada Weevers, to go to the concert and meet the artist. This meeting was such a success that they became engaged and married in 1931. They settled in an apartment in a new Berlin quarter, Charlottenburg. I was born in 1932 and there are pictures of my father holding me on the balcony.
But in 1933 came bad luck. On 30 January, Hitler became Reichskanzler in Germany and a threatening atmosphere for Jewish people becomes immediately acute. Jews are fired from public functions. Paul Hermann loses his job. The little family seeks refuge with Ada’s parents in the Netherlands. In the summer holiday, they stay near the seaside and, when swimming, Ada gets caught in a vortex in the waves and nearly drowns. She inhales water, it leads to pneumonia and she dies a few months later.
Paul Hermann joins Hungarian colleagues in Brussels. Together they perform as the Gertler Quartet. They tour Belgium, France, Switzerland, Italy, Hungary. He has left me with my maternal grandparents; a younger sister of my mother takes loving care of me. Every time my father visits is delightful. The whole family adores him.
After a few years in Brussels, Paul Hermann moves to Paris and continues his international career. On 4 August 1939, I turned seven. I remember him coming, always with his cello. Only recently, I found a letter my father wrote to a friend telling me about all the difficulties he had to get permission from the French authorities to cross the border to Holland. Foreign Jews are already under suspicion.
But I only know it’s my birthday, a party. As a present, my father gives me the new French book, ‘Histoire de Babar, le petit éléphant‘, and he teaches me my first French words: ‘Babar entre dans l’ascenseur, il monte dix fois en haut et descend dix fois en bas mais le garçon lui dit “ce n’est pas un joujou, monsieur l’éléphant”‘.
But again, the atmosphere is threatening. War breaks out at the end of August. Borders are closing. All foreign visitors return hastily. That winter, Western Europe is mobilised, but the fighting is in the east. We can still correspond. But in the spring, Hitler looks toward France. The French army is preparing the defence. Paul Hermann joins a régiment de marche de volontaires étrangers to assist the French army. In June, the Germans are in Paris. Northern France, Belgium and the Netherlands are occupied and under German rule. As a schoolchild, I remember the little boards everywhere: ‘Verboden voor Joden‘.
In France, the southern region is at first not occupied. People feel relatively safe there. Hermann and his cello stay first with the de Graaff couple, who have moved from London to the region south of Bordeaux, but then he moves to a room in Toulouse. He has some pupils and can give a few recitals. Censorship makes corresponding very difficult. We get only very few letters.
Sometimes he can visit Ada’s brother, Jan Weevers, who has an agricultural business in a village about 150 km from Toulouse. This brother-in-law supports him as much as he can. But in 1942, all France is occupied. The terror of the Gestapo reigns also in Toulouse. In Budapest, Berlin, Paris, Paul Hermann has been able to flee from antisemitism. Now this is not possible anymore. He takes false papers, names himself de Cotigny and hopes for the best.
But on 21 April 1944, he is arrested in a street raid, taken to the Toulouse prison and transported to Drancy, the assembling camp near Paris, from where the transports for the concentration camps departed.
In May 1944, he is put in a wagon with 60 other men as a part of transport number 73 from Drancy. While the train is waiting at the station, he manages to write a note to his brother-in-law and throws it out of the train. A kind passenger, who probably realises this could be a last message, posts it. Miraculously, it reaches Jan Weevers. It reads:
«On nous a dit que nous allions travailler à l’Organisation Todt. Nous sommes pleins d’espoir malgré tout. Quant à mes instruments, je te prie de sauver ce que tu peux.»
There is hardly any transportation, but Jan Weevers manages to go to Toulouse, where Paul’s rooms have been sealed by the Gestapo. Spoils of war. He forces a window and exchanges the precious Gagliano cello for a cheap student’s instrument. He takes it home. Paul’s cello is saved.
Transport 73 is not put to work for the organisation Todt. It is sent all through Europe to Kaunas in Lithuania. We don’t know what happened, but only a handful of the 900 prisoners who arrived in Kaunas will return after the war.
In the Netherlands, 1944-1945 is the hardest year of the war. There is no food, no heating. The infrastructure is heavily destructed. In May 1945, the Canadians entered the city where we lived. The Nazi regime capitulates, and it is immense joy.
Only weeks later, we hear what has happened in France. Investigations by Jan Weevers have been in vain. Will Paul Hermann return? In Tony Judt’s standard book Postwar, we read about the chaos in Middle Europe: many millions of displaced persons roam in deplorable conditions through what is left of Germany. Some returned home after months or years. Many don’t. Gradually we realise Paul will never come back.
Surrounded by a beloved extended family, I grow up, go to the university to study medicine, marry, have a family. As a doctor, I work mainly in public health. And at the end of my career, I am elected in the Netherlands Parliament for the Green Party. After retirement, I am reminded of a pile of handwritten music scores which have been laying around for more than 60 years. They are old compositions of my father. He played music with his colleagues in all kinds of combinations.
The Dutch foundation Forbidden Music Regained, which focuses on the work of composers who were persecuted by the Nazis, is interested. They are greatly impressed by the quality of the music, and organise concerts and recordings. My son Paul, named after his grandfather, develops into the coordinator of this legacy and makes it accessible to musicians all over the world.
When he’s visiting cousins in Los Angeles, they introduce him to the Recovered Voices project of the Los Angeles Colburn School of Music, which is also aimed at persecuted composers. Top cellist Clive Greensmith is enthusiastic about Hermann’s music, especially about a draft for a piece for cello and orchestra. Paul has a friend, an Italian composer, Fabio Conti, who makes the draft into a complete piece for cello and orchestra using themes from other Hermann compositions. Greensmith plays the premiere in 2018, in Lviv, Ukraine.
But another staff member in Los Angeles, Carla Shapreau, says: ‘Yes, this is the music. But where is that Gagliano cello?’ In 1953, Jan Weevers took the cello to the Netherlands. It has been sold to finance my studies, but we don’t know who bought it.
Carla enlists the help of Oxford-based biography writer Kate Kennedy, who is working on a book about the duality of cellists and their cellos. Kate also gets under the spell of the Hermann story, and she looks for the cello literally all over the world – asking cellists, luthiers, instrument dealers, music schools, browsing through auction catalogues. Who knows the whereabouts of a Gagliano cello made in 1730 with the text ‘Ego sum anima musicae’ – I am the soul of music – on the side? But Kate does not find it. The publication date of her book nears; she feels defeated.
The book Cello is published. Cellists everywhere read it. And then Kate gets a mail from a Chinese cello professor, Jian Wang, acting as jury member for the Concours Reine Elisabeth here in Brussels in 2022. He has noticed a cello. It is in the possession of the Robert Schumann Musik Hochschule in Düsseldorf, and only their best students are permitted to play it. At a presentation of Kate’s book Cello in the Wigmore Hall in London, where my father performed 100 years ago, Australian Sam Lucas plays, on Paul Hermann’s cello, one of his compositions.
Between 1920 and 1940, Paul Hermann played the same cello in all Western and Central Europe. Searching for this icon of European culture has connected people from all over the world: from Europe to Los Angeles to China to Australia. And its amazing story has captured interest everywhere.
For me, this is a reunion in spirit with the father whom I have missed for 85 years.
Hitler has burned books, destroyed paintings and buildings, murdered millions of people. But music is invincible.
Ego sum anima musicae. Freude, schöner Götterfunken. Alle Menschen werden Brüder.
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