o the Memory of Karl Plagge
By Samuel Bak
So far, 2008 has been for me a time for celebration. The boy who at age 10 was
condemned to die has just celebrated his 75th birthday -- three times twenty-five, in
effect three adult lives. This is not what the Nazis had in mind for me. And I guess that
gives me a certain right to this self-congratulatory opening.
I have profited from that gift of life in at least one way that I regard as judicious. I have
painted and painted -- and though it is not for me to judge the artistic value of my
paintings, I can claim at least that I made a good number of them. And I have been
fortunate in their reception internationally, at times in as many as five separate
exhibitions at once. I am especially happy to think that my works speak to many people,
old, young, and very young.
My materials are paper, canvas, wood, and paint. Other materials are history, culture,
memory, reflection, care, loss, pain, and a quest for serenity. With all these elements I try
to give shape to the questions that dwell in my soul. Soul is a tricky word. I do not
conceive it as a divine or unworldly substance, but rather as what can bind us together as
human beings, a mental state that enables our connection with others. As already implied,
I have spent the greater part of my years on this earth in artist’s studios, standing before
various easels or tables, always with a brush in my hand. I have inhabited endless such
studios in diverse countries spread over three continents -- the perfect settings for my
long life as the quintessential Wandering Jew.
As a working artist, or as a man reflecting upon his life, for me the key to meaning is
always visual. So whether I'm painting images that represent allegories or symbols, or
navigating in thought between my personal present and past, I necessarily proceed by
engaging the brain-mechanism that summons memories and projects them on the screen
of my mind. When I paint, this screen is my guide. As I reflect upon my life, the screen
often brings up scenes that demand deeper understanding. Of course that demand isn't
always met. Often, in spite of all my focussed attention, I miss the full meaning of what
I'm seeing. As with a train traveler whose eyes are glued to the wrong window, the really
spectacular landscape goes by unseen. Then occasionally it happens that the passage of
time or the unfolding of some unexpected event -- something totally independent of my
person -- opens my eyes to the full picture and brings that deep understanding I had
missed.
I am reflecting on these matters on the eve of this exhibition of mine in Darmstadt, the
home of Karl Plagge. Allow me to invite you to watch with me a faraway scene
projected on my above-mentioned mental screen. We are in 1943, and I am ten years old,
standing in the doorframe of the massive building in which we lodge. My eyes scan the
desolate landscape of our surroundings -- the endless lines of barbed wire, a few roofs of
low sheds, and some smoking chimneys of heating stoves. Many dirty army trucks. Some
are dismantled; others stand with running motors that eject acrid smells of gas and
burning wood. At some distance stand the ominous silhouettes of military men. One
wears a gray Wehrmacht greatcoat, an officer’s cap, and shiny boots; the others, who are
elderly and heavy, carry rifles. The officer limps in a way I recognize; I have seen him
many times before. He is the head of our camp (called HKP, short for Heeres-KraftfahrPark). The camp is a slave labor unit that provides the German army with services related
to automobiles. The work is being done by a few specialists who supervise the mostly
unskilled hands. All toil in a variety of dark and crammed workshops from which a
Jewish man appears, probably a foreman. The officer and the foreman exchange some
words. The Jew seems to be at ease with the officer. His relaxed attitude doesn’t surprise,
because I know that our boss is “The Good German.” However to us children of the camp
he is a mighty ruler, he belongs to a planet of giants. His boots are very shiny, and we
children believe it wise to keep a safe distance between him and ourselves. Still, we do
not fear him in the way we fear the other uniforms, mainly the SS, the killers.
Here at the end of 1943 we are among the last surviving Jews of Vilna. We consider
ourselves very lucky to be under this officer’s orders. But In a few months the Red Army
will have advanced toward Vilna. The German generals will have become nervous, and
our Good German will have lost his benevolent control over our camp as the SS seize
control of the HKP. Most of the camp’s children will be torn from their parents' arms,
thrown like rag dolls into fuming trucks, and sent to their death. Then most of the camp’s
population will be slaughtered, save for some two hundred and fifty Jews who will
manage to escape. My father will be murdered; but Mother and I will survive.
I speak of all this because I owe my life to a man whom I was unknowingly observing
from far away, without realizing how instrumental he was to my life. What did I know
about the kernel of humanity that had blossomed in the soul of our “Good German"?
Even a decade ago, when I wrote my memoir PAINTED IN WORDS, I hardly mentioned
this seemingly distant figure, almost invisible to the boy I was then. How could I have
known that this 'giant' officer in bright shoes was gravely troubled by what he witnessed?
That in order to save a certain number of Jews from certain death he devised a way to
employ them as slave laborers in his unit? For that purpose he created on the outskirts of
our town the camp in which I spent several months after the ghetto was liquidated. By
exploiting the weakening of the German war-machine, and by accepting a considerable
risk to his own life, he gave us several months of endurable conditions -- and above all
the elusive hope of perhaps, perhaps, another chance . . .
A little while ago I said that the unfolding of some unexpected events, independent of my
person, could at times bring me to the discovery of a much fuller picture. And here is a
compelling example. Several years ago, a few survivors and their offspring undertook to
learn more about our “Good German,” and their laudable effort led to the posthumous
discovery and recognition of Major Karl Plagge and his unique story. Since then Karl
Plagge has become a real German hero. Even Yad Vashem, known for the severity of its
scrutiny, has recognized him as a Righteous Christian. All this happened thanks to the
meticulous research of Michael Good, and the publication of his extraordinary book
entitled “In Search of Major Plagge.” This book has made me understand who that was,
hiding behind the silhouette of the limping officer. I wish I could have shaken his hand. I
wish I could have told him how grateful I am. But he died half a century ago.
Karl Plagge’s city is Darmstadt, and Darmstadt is very proud of her son. An admirable
effort to tell his story and preserve his memory has for several years been in the making.
There is now an incredible group of people who in the spirit of Plagge’s humaneness
have developed among themselves ties of affection and friendship. The event of my
exhibition offers me a unique occasion to express my personal gratitude for Plagge’s
having been the man he was, and for his having inspired so many souls. Thus I have
decided to offer to the Synagogue of Darmstadt one of my paintings, a painting I
particularly cherish. It is dedicated to the memory of Karl Plagge.
The work is part of a series that deals with the Hebrew alphabet, and it is called SHIN.
The letter Shin symbolizes one of God’s Holy names. It stands for SHADDAY, which
literally means “my breasts.” Unlike the Alephs of ALOHIM (God in plural), AVINU
MALKENU (our father and king), or ADONAY (My Lord), all of them masculine
denominations – the Shin characterizes the feminine aspect of divine power. It denotes
motherhood, care, love, and readiness for sacrifice. The letter Shin is also the initial of
my proper name Shmuel or Samuel. A name that the humane actions of several
exceptional people, a Catholic priest, a nun, a Lithuanian engineer, and (as I now know)
Karl Plagge, have allowed me to carry al the way into my seventy-fifth year. The image
of the Shin in my painting is made up of letters, abstract shapes, and pieces of flying
debris. It oscillates between falling apart and coming together, between a world that is
decomposing and a world that is being reborn from its ashes, and in a certain way
between asking questions and seeking answers. I believe that the light and serenity of the
sky in this work speak for themselves. To me this painting is of a theological nature, and
its state of suspension is evoking the mystery of being.
Though I lead a secular life and have distanced myself from religious rituals, I am forever
fascinated and moved by man’s search for his soul, by his desire to connect with a higher
power, and by his longing for God. Moreover, my work has been continuously inspired
by the Jewish faith in its uninterrupted dialog with the Creator -- often a very critical
dialog! My culture, my story, and the sense of loss that is imbedded in me tie me to the
Holocaust. However as I follow the still-occurring tragic events on our planet, I am
devastated by what still goes on. I must admit that the lesson of the Jewish experience,
though unique in its kind, hasn’t prevented a brutal repetition of more and more tragedies.
Humanity needs a world in which there is accountability. Where could it be found? All
this propels me to ask questions of a more and more universal nature. I think that Karl
Plagge would have been happy to know that the boy in short pants and scanty coat, the
boy he must often have noticed sneaking away to hide behind the corners of buildings,
should one day, with his help, emerge from the darkness of the Nazi times and produce
many, many paintings, some of which would arrive here to his city. Most of my paintings
-- or to be more precise, most of the questions that my paintings pose-- remain
unanswered. But the mere possibility they give me to touch a public, to connect with
other souls, to challenge the viewers’ imagination and join together in seeking humane
answers -- even just this possibility is a priceless link with the exceptional heritage of
Karl Plagge.