43 (or Thank goodness I didn’t have to)

The newspapers said, “Say what you doing in bed?”

I said, “We’re only trying to get us some peace.”

                                                                                                                 --The Ballad of John and Yoko

 On 9 November 1966 John Lennon travelled to the Indica Gallery in London because, as he later claimed in an interview for Playboy magazine, he was told there was a “happening event”--something about an “artsy-fartsy orgy.” It wasn’t. Instead he met a Japanese-American woman who would from that time forward be inextricably linked to his legacy.

Somewhat ironically, the extensive press coverage of John and Yoko’s “bed-in” at the Amsterdam Hilton (in March, 1969 shortly after their wedding in Gibraltar) was due in part to the misbelief that their well-advertised “happening event” might, in fact, be an “artsy-fartsy orgy.” It wasn’t. Instead it was nothing more than a clever commandeering of the spotlight that Lennon knew so well how to use.

 Because of Lennon’s legal troubles (not to mention his well-played reputation as a bad boy) the list of countries that would allow John and Yoko to enter was rather limited. After deciding to skip the Caribbean as a suitable forum for their “bed-in” (John was convinced that the American press corps would not travel there to cover the event), and being asked to leave France, The Ono-Lennons settled on Amsterdam. The Amsterdam Hilton. Room 702.

Four years later, at 17:30 on Friday 20 January at Mt. Carmel Catholic Church in Essex, MD another wedding took place. John and Yoko seemed not even to know, and save the Essex Times, the American press corps otherwise ignored it. Forty-three years later, to the day mind you, Debbie and I decided--actually Debbie decided; I was clueless until I saw that we were in front of the Hilton--that a proper way to celebrate would be a visit to the place that remains as significant to the Fab Four’s fans and fans of John Lennon as most others in Beatles’ folklore.

 I’ll be honest, celebrating anniversaries, especially after #25, is a matter of making dinner reservations and using the time before the food comes to remember as many anniversary restaurants as possible. (Anniversary dinners are also a perfect time to ponder why anyone would spend waaay too much money on food and especially alcohol on a weekday evening when they should be sleeping because getting up at 5:30 is made even more challenging by heartburn and the lack of sleep. I know, I know...I’m a romantic.) So when I was told there would be a surprise and I was forbidden to ask any questions regarding the plan for that Wednesday evening, I thought, “What so surprising about giving hundreds of my euros to a restaurant that serves portions that belong on a tapas menu?” But, I complied, sort of.

 

The bus ride into Amsterdam (driving here is absolutely out of the question, which is fodder for a different blog posting) was no different from countless others except I didn’t know where we were going. When we got off at Emmastraat, the only thought I had was that to my recollection I had never been on the street in that part of town before. I was still clueless when we turned the corner and remained so until I saw the marquee for the Amsterdam Hilton.

Olaf

“Holy crap,” I said. “We’re gonna see Lennon’s room; aren’t we?” Debbie had visited the week before--thus the prohibition on inquiries--and asked to arrange a visit. The policy is simple. Anyone can see the room upon request, provided it is not booked. (They average one request per day!) They told Debbie that the chances of that were extremely small as it would be a Wednesday in January. Guess what… When Debbie approached the front desk and made our request, the clerk said, “I will see if the room is booked,” and he left. When he returned he said, “It is.” Before Debbie could say anything in response, he said, “But, they are not here yet, so I will ask my colleague to escort you.”

Now...I admit that I have the emotional maturity of a 12-year old pre-menstrual girl. Everything makes me well-up. Everything. My mother has been gone for 16 years, but the mere mention of her name can make me lose my breath. Kids singing St. Maarten songs at the front door, guaranteed. Staring for too long at photos of my grandchildren. (I think Anna, the oldest, tries to work me up. “Are you crying yet?” she’ll ask just before I assure her that I never cry.) For a hot second when the guy at the front desk said that the room was booked, I was a little disappointed (only because I am far too lazy to want to go home only to return another day in hopes it would be available then), but when he motioned toward the man standing behind us, I thought I would lose it right then and there. Seriously, all the way to the room (as Olaf, our guide, asked us about everything from why we are in Amsterdam to how we could look so young despite claiming to be married 43 years) I could feel myself getting worked up.

 

As we got closer and closer, I don’t think I even heard the conversation. He unlocked the outer door and pushed it open allowing me to see the space inside. The air seemed to suck out of the room. He probably wondered why I just stood there. Finally he said, “You may go in.”

 

The first time I stood in front of Johannes Vermeer’s A View of Delft it occurred to me that I was standing precisely where the great Vincent van Gogh had stood when he first saw the painting. I once stood in right field at Three Rivers Stadium where Roberto Clemente became a legend. I have been in the living quarters of Jefferson Davis, and I knew I was standing where Abraham Lincoln had been in the waning days of the Civil War. I’ve stood at Rembrandt’s easel and Louis XIV’s throne, and every time I visit the Grote Kerk in Haarlem, I can easily imagine Mozart as a child prodigy playing the massive organ. I once stood on an empty stage at the Red Rocks Amphitheater in Denver where the Beatles once performed, but last Wednesday my list increased in such a surprising way I think I would have traded most of the other ones for this one chance. Thank goodness I didn’t have to.

                

Replete with one of Lennon’s guitars and two pieces of his original artwork, the room is a shrine. Olaf told us all about the renovations done to the room, which now features Lennon’s  drawings etched on glass and printed on the linens and draperies. The bed is the same although not original, in fact nothing is. (At 1700 euros per night, 47-year old design elements won’t work.)

 

The whole experience is ineffable. I cannot, or I should say that until now I have not been able to say what it meant to be there. As a Beatles fan the “bed-in” is not more than the bully pulpit it was designed to be. Lennon was a master of the message, and for those of us whose only question was “What flavor is the kool-aid?” the event was not more than the goal. But...and it is a huge however...being in that room--seeing his art, sitting on the edge of “his” bed, knowing I was where he had been--was stunning.

***

Needless to say, after we seated ourselves in the Hilton’s lounge, the conversation did not include the 42 restaurants that paled in comparison to the night we were living. We were greeted by a server who promised to come back when we had made our selections, but when he did he brought with him two glasses of champagne--compliments of Olaf.

Like I said, stunning.

                             

The Hollandsche Schouwburg (“When you walk in here all your smiles go away.”)

Before 1942 The Hollandsche Schouwburg (Dutch Theater) was a theater, a splendid theater. In 1941, commanders of the German occupying force, in an effort to segregate Jewish people, decided the theater would be used and attended by only Jews. They mockingly renamed it “Jew Schouwburg.” In 1942 all performances ended as the theater became an “assembly point”--a holding tank--for the thousands upon thousands of Dutch Jews who would eventually be sent to concentration camps throughout Europe. The Nazis chose the Schouwburg for at least two very practical reasons: it could accommodate thousands of people at one time; and as it had no windows--it was undetectable from prying eyes including allied bombers. Small children and infants were separated from their parents and housed at the nursery across the street.

Although the theater was ideal for holding thousands of people, it was just as inadequate to house that many. Impossible conditions soon developed, as there existed only two rest rooms for men and three for women. There were said to be “two or three” working sinks. Soon infested with lice and vermin, illness was inevitable. Ever industrious, the inmates created an infirmary for sick or wounded prisoners, and were said to have instituted regular exercise routines.

As of September 29, 1943 “Jew Schouwburg” was no longer necessary as it was declared, “all Jews had been removed from Amsterdam.” (That number exceeded 104,000 people.)

 

The Courtyard 

Among the many, many tragic stories of Dutch deportation (including internationally famous people like Anne Frank) is hidden the work of Walter Süskind. Süskind, a German Jew, left Nazi Germany in 1939 when he lost his job as the manager of margarine factory. A Dutch citizen by virtue of his grandparents, Süskind was appointed the head of the Jewish personnel in the Schouwburg. It was his responsibility to manage the Jewish staff (of mostly doctors, nurses, and the actors and musicians who once performed at the theater) in their work to “manage” the Jewish people who reported for processing.

Walter Süskind spoke fluent German and was often seen talking to and being very friendly with the soldiers who guarded his theater and the nursery across the street. The story is told that Süskind generously plied his captors with alcohol and other gifts. He seemed to enjoy their trust, which he, in turn, used to deceive his jailors. His plan was amazingly simple. The vantage point from the theater to the nursery across the street was often obscured by the trams which stopped directly in front. On the occasion that trams travelling in opposite directions stopped together, the view was completely blocked. Using such moments, Süskind orchestrated the safe passage of over 600 children and infants.

 

View to the Nursery

On Saturday I stood where Süskind undoubtedly once stood. As I stared in the general direction of the school that now stands where the nursery once was, I was reminded that life is timing. I’ve been at The Top of the World in the World Trade Center in NYC, but not on 9-11. I’ve walked the streets of Phnom Penh, but not on April 17, 1975 when the Khmer Rouge rampaged through the city killing and capturing anyone they deemed a threat, and I’ve stood on Omaha Beach with the English Channel at my back, but not on June 6, 1944 when over 2,000 men were slaughtered before they left the sand.

The trams are not the same. The schedules are not the same. The urgency is certainly not the same, but I wanted to see it for myself. I wanted to see two trams stop side-by-side. I wanted to imagine the feeling of risking my life, the terrifying thrill of whisking small children (often hidden in shopping bags or knapsacks) from the building to the tram (30 yards?) in a few life-threatening seconds.  As I stood there watching tram after tram come from one direction or the other (without ever seeing the overlap I pictured) I wondered if I would have the same commitment, the same willingness to risk my welfare for that of children I didn’t even know.

6700 Surnames

In 1960, the Schouwburg was all but demolished. Fifteen years of deterioration cost it it’s life, although the front of the building remains. The proud legacy remains, but so do the memories of the atrocities originated in that building. Today the Schouwburg is a memorial. It features a small collection of artifacts and a few  displays to help attendees understand it’s heritage. It also contains the names of 6700 families who lost at least one person during the Nazi occupation of Amsterdam. The courtyard gives an indication of the relatively tiny space in which 1,300 prisoners could be held for sometimes up to one week.

Walter Suskind did not survive the war. Along with his wife and daughter, Suskind was sent to Westerbork (deportation camp) in north Holland. From there his wife and daughter were sent to Auschwitz where they were killed. Suskind died in 1945, probably on a forced march by Germans fleeing the approaching Red Army.

The eternal flame

After a short while in such a solemn place, the feeling of something like shame, or grief, or helplessness sort of creeped over me. As I stood reading the long lists of family names I was remotely aware of a short, dark-haired boy standing near the eternal flame which burns in the memorial. I heard him say, but to no one in particular, “When you walk in here, all your smiles go away.”

Munch, van Gogh, and the Albertina

The Scream, E. Munch

I was walking down the road with two friends when the sun set; suddenly, the sky turned as red as blood. I stopped and leaned against the fence, feeling unspeakably tired. Tongues of fire and blood stretched over the bluish black fjord. My friends went on walking, while I lagged behind, shivering with fear.  

—Edvard Munch, explaining the breakdown that inspired The Scream

You know of Edvard Munch probably for one reason: a painting commonly called “The Scream.” If you know more than that, you knew more than I, for sure. I was eager to attend an exhibition of Edvard Munch’s work in Vienna for no better reason than where it was held. The Albertina Museum is one of the Habsburg palaces and holds an impressive collection of art by the world’s most renowned artists. Also, the Albertina is restored and itself an exhibition of the opulence enjoyed by the Habsburg crew. Munch’s work was there, and I was reminded of the “two birds…” adage.

Ballroom at the Albertina

 The building called “Albertina” (so named in 1921) was originally constructed on the site of one of the few remaining portions of the original fortification known as the Augustinian Bastion. Refurbished at least twice, it was acquired by and renamed for the husband of Maria Christina, a daughter of Austrian Empress Maria Theresa. While living in Brussels, Duke Albert, the governor of the Habsburg Netherland, amassed one of the world’s greatest collections of “old master prints,” (which are now stored at the Albertina, but are considered too old and too fragile to display and are rarely seen by the visiting general public). As a result of drawing the short straw with regard to WWI, the ownership of the Albertina and the massive collection of over 1,000,000 pieces of art were transferred from the Habsburgs to the Austrian government in 1919.

Man and Woman, E. Munch

Edvard Munch, (pronounced “moonk”) was born in 1863 in Norway and died there in 1944. His art was profoundly influenced by family misfortune, his mental illness, and his excessive dependence on alcohol. “The Scream” was one piece in a series of paintings known as “The Frieze of Life”. With titles including, Melancholy, Anxiety, and Jealousy, it is not hard to understand  the angst from which he surely suffered. He once wrote: I see all people behind their masks: pale corpses restlessly hurrying along a winding path, the end of which is death.

Upon returning to Holland and still having vacation time to explore Amsterdam, it seemed only fitting to attend an exhibition at the Van Gogh Museum (pronounced “fan hock moo-say-um” by the Dutch, but only the Dutch and God know how to hock up the “gh” sound at the end of Gogh) titled, “Munch/Van Gogh: The similarities and connections between two iconic artists.” Although van Gogh was born ten years earlier, their lives overlapped. Both men were reared by zealous, devoutly religious parents. Both lived in Paris, although there is no evidence they ever met. Because the same circle of influential artists knew both men, it is likely that they were aware of each other.

 

Madonna, E. Munch

Both suffered from mental illness and both are known to have intentionally injured himself—van Gogh famously cutting off part of an ear after an argument with Paul Gauguin; and Munch shooting himself in the hand after a lovers’ quarrel. Munch died at 81 after seeing the world ignite twice. Van Gogh killed himself at age 37—his entire body of work completed in only ten years. They seem like a mismatched match made in artists’ heaven. Because he lived so long, Munch knew van Gogh’s work well. Munch wrote in 1933, “During his short life van Gogh did not allow his flame to go out. Fire and embers were his brushes during the few years of his life, whilst he burned for his art. I have thought, and wished—in the long term, with more money at my disposal than he had—to follow in his footsteps.”

The Sick Child, E. Munch

 Here’s what I took away: both van Gogh and Munch created jaw-dropping works of art worthy of the singular renown reserved for the rare talents they were; and both created art that makes me wonder why and how some of their work could come from the same brushes as their masterworks. By the time Munch died, his art in no way resembled the work of his youth. He was a dark, sullen man who, as he once admitted, painted from his memory, and his memories were haunted by the deaths of his mother when he was only four years old, his sister when she was fifteen; and his brother at age thirty. Like Munch himself, another of his sisters was institutionalized for mental illness. 

The similarities between the two men seem obvious. Clearly, dark, sinister sides haunted both men, but both men used the struggle to achieve greatness, but a pair of quotations might best express one of their differences. Vincent van Gogh once wrote: Anyone who loves an ordinary, everyday person and is loved (in return) is happy—despite the dark side. Edvard Munch spoke of love this way: The ancients were right to compare love to a flame, for like a flame, love only leaves ashes behind.

(Note: In 1987, van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet sold at auction for $82,500,000, making it the highest priced work of art ever at the time. In 2012, The Scream sold at auction for more than $119,000,000. To date the highest priced work of art is When Will You Marry? by Paul Gauguin, which sold for $300,000,000.)

Portrait of Dr. Gachet

When Will You Marry?