600 Feet Underground

On the outskirts of Heilbronn I noticed the distant super-structure of a mine shaft, and wondered if this could be the support for the elevator cables. I was anxious to make an immediate inspection of the mine but decided that I had better go first to the local Military Government headquarters for an appraisal of the military situation… Military equipment, both German and American, littered the area. Some of the buildings were still smoldering and occasionally burst into flame… (J. Rorimer 138-139)

For many months the Germans had been bringing their most cherished possessions to the mine by car and truck load and placing them at the foot of the mine shaft… The average depth of the salt deposits was six hundred feet below the earths’s surface. The removal of the salt had left storage spaces three hundred feet long, fifty feet wide and averaging seventy feet in height… We found out later that some of these areas, of which sixteen had been used for storage, were as high as ninety feet… The total area used covered approximately ten thousand square yards of mine floor. The real extent of the salt deposits had only partially been proven by test borings, but it was estimated that there were twenty square miles of minable salt in Heilbronn (J. Rorimer 139-140).

The almost constant temperature and humidity, roughly 50 degrees and 60 to 65 per cent respectively, guaranteed that the deposited works of art would not suffer from sudden changes in atmospheric conditions. German scientists had investigated the practicability of storing such objects in the mines for more than a year before they were used as repositories. Paintings and other objects were not affected by the moisture or action of the stable salt under the existing conditions. Iron was of course attacked by rust, but this could be prevented by coating it thickly with oil or grease. Thin films of salt dust deposited on works of art were not harmful and could be readily wiped off before the objects were removed from the mines. In the library of the Rosenberg headquarters in Paris I had found a volume dealing with the economy of Germany. In the section devoted to salt mining, I learned that before the war salt mines in Germany and Austria were producing about 10 per cent of the world’s supply. (J. Rorimer, 137-138)

The Kochendorf salt mine, five miles north of Heilbronn, was a very important repository… Unlike the storage chambers at Heilbronn, those at Kochendorf were some thirty-five feet above the water level and there was no danger of seepage… On July 9th, John Nicholas Brown, Lieutenant General Clay’s cultural adviser, and Lieutenant Colonel Mason Hammond of U.S. Group Control Council, went down into the Kochendorf mine with me. We looked at some of the contents – the famous Grünewald painting of the Virgin from the church at Stuppach, dozens of canvases from Stuttgart, and furniture from the Palace of Ludwigsburg. Here at least the Germans had done an excellent job of safeguarding their own treasures and those confiscated during their occupation of foreign lands. We decided that the wisest course would be to leave everything right were it was; it was safer here than it would be in the hands of unqualified personnel (J. Rorimer, 147-149).

When I read these passages from my grandfather’s chapter entitled, “Art Underground,” I knew that I wanted to visit a real salt mine, and if possible the same one that he wrote about in his book. Nowadays, the Heilbronn and Kochendorf Salt Mines are active during the week, so if you want to visit, you must go on a Saturday or a Sunday. Since 1984, the two mines have been connected underground, but only the Bad-Friedrichshall Kochendorf Salt Mine, a 30-minute drive from Heilbronn, is open to tourists. I arranged a ride with a local tour guide, Frau M.

Out of all the Monuments Girl excursions I had planned, I was most looking forward to touring the salt mine. However, I really hadn’t thought about what that meant in practical terms until I arrived at the visitor’s center. There was the superstructure of the mine shaft, just as my grandfather had described it, with two spinning wheels atop, supporting the elevator cables. I had been studying the black and white image in his book for weeks, trying to make sense of its architecture. As I approached, I was mesmerized by its striking resemblance and I grew weak in my knees. I wondered if It was too late to cancel, but I couldn’t. And I wouldn’t! I had come all this way for a very specific purpose. I wanted to experience a real salt mine.

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My guide forged ahead into the elevator, and I gingerly followed behind. A horde of other tourists crammed in like passengers at rush hour on a New York subway. I wanted to cling to Frau M., but I restrained myself and took deep breaths instead. The canvas elevator doors closed. I could see through the gaps to the elevator shaft. As we began to descend, the thought of taking the elevator down 200 meters suddenly sank in. How often do you get in an elevator and go down first? It’s a much different sensation than getting into an elevator and going up. When we reached the bottom, the doors opened, and I breathed in cool salt air. Frau M. began enumerating the wonderful health benefits of mineral-rich air, but all I could think about was whether we would have enough oxygen. “Not to worry,” she said, “there are air shafts, of course.”

Underground it was dark; The air felt heavy, and I steadied myself on the salty wall. For an hour and a half, we wandered through open caverns as wide as football fields and as high as cathedral domes. It was almost too much to try and imagine my grandfather and the 178 consecutive kilometers of hidden artwork, so I focused on acclimating instead.

After a while, I relaxed a little. High-tech interactive exhibits installed in 2011 brought levity and light. There was a short film about Pangea and the formation of salt deposits in the earth’s crust. Then there was an exhibit dedicated to the process of mining with a highly realistic dynamite “boom” that went off every few minutes, echoing throughout the gigantic chamber. I almost forgot I was in a salt mine when I walked through the laser-like moving light beam that gave the impression of swimming in water.

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But then it got heavy again. One exhibit was devoted to the history of a forced labor in the mine. Everything was in German, so I could only piece together information, but what little I gathered was enough. And actually, I didn’t want to imagine.

One area looked familiar, even though I’d never seen it before. Wooden crates of all sizes were stacked on top of each other. The colossal cavern dwarfed the large pile. I focused in on the informational video. My guide, who who had been interpreting informational plaques into English, grew silent. As we listened and watched, the topic became clear: removing hidden art from the salt mine at the end of World War II. The narrator was describing the work of the Monuments Men. I glanced at Frau M., then back to the screen, tapping my fingers excitedly on the railing in front of me. And then, as if in slow-motion, I heard, “…an American officer, James J. Rorimer, from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City…” No translation was necessary.

I couldn’t believe it. There I was, 600 feet underground, in a salt mine, in a part of Germany few tourists visit, having traveled half-way around the world, and I was witnessing my grandfather’s legacy. I didn’t have to imagine him this time. The evidence made it very clear. Words failed me, but I knew without a doubt that I had made the right decision.

One of the small connecting tunnels, Kochendorf Salt Mine

One of the small connecting tunnels, Kochendorf Salt Mine

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Something Old, Something New…

Heilbronn was desolate and almost deserted. It had been a railroad center of strategic importance and its chemical and other industrial plants had been expanded during recent years. Tens of thousands of German citizens had been killed in a twenty-eight-minute raid by our bombers and in the later artillery bombardments. The stench of unburied dead filled the town. The highest tower of the church of St. Killian had been used for German machine gun nests built into concrete reinforced cubicles. It was as battered as most of the other solidly built stone structures that had once been Heilbronn’s glory. (J. Rorimer,138)

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Church of St. Killian 1933-1944 (J. Rorimer, 178-179)

This morning I departed from Füssen, traveling on three trains eventually reaching the city of Heilbronn. Thankfully, it was not desolate nor deserted. After checking into my hotel, I headed for the church of St. Killian, just a 5-minute walk away. For most of the trip, I have been studying the striking before and after photos in my grandfather’s book (above), and I wanted to see for myself how much the church had changed since its bombardment on December 4th,1944.

I conduced a thorough inspection, both inside and out, as well as from above and below, studying the book as I went, looking for details of original stonework, and imagining myself in my grandfather’s shoes. Here’s what I discovered:

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