She was an adorable child, a lovely young woman. And in later years, if she took on the girth and majesty one associates with a Wagnerian singer, it was appropriate. For that is what she grew up to be.
But Leonore Schwarz Neumaier, born and trained in Vienna and, for a time, the leading contralto at the Frankfurt Opera, was no Valkyrie, riding off to the immortality of Valhalla. She was a Jew, destined — despite fame and artistic prowess — for the Nazi killing fields at Majdanek.
“A Voice Silenced,” the current exhibit of photos and memorabilia assembled by her granddaughter, Diane Neumaier, at the Judah L. Magnes Museum in Berkeley, begins to tug at the heart from the moment you walk through the gallery door.
Maybe it’s the music — CDs made from old 78-rpm recordings — playing softly in the background. Here are photos of the singer in some of her many roles: Hansel in Humperdinck’s “Hansel und Gretel,” Ortrud and Brangane out of Wagner, Amneris from “Aida” and, cigarette hanging seductively from her lips, Bizet’s temptress “Carmen.”
Theater programs line the walls, along with family photos and other items, lovingly preserved from trunks she sent to her relocated family in America in hopes — in vain, it turned out — of soon joining them.
The photographic record is large but by no means complete. Some of the most poignant mountings are those of ruined negatives, simply titled “Disintegration,” serving as a metaphor for what happened to the lives of this family and many others.
The photographic artist is not the only family member dedicated to keeping the singer’s memory alive.
John J. Neumaier, Leonore’s only son and Diane’s father, collaborated on the exhibit and contributed his recollections to the commentary. Most of the photos, with the exception of the larger publicity stills, were originally taken with the Leica camera his parents gave him for his bar mitzvah.
John Neumaier, a retired professor of philosophy and former university president, journeyed to Berkeley on July 18, to share some of his stories and feelings about his mother. A tireless writer and lecturer on the Holocaust, he recalled, in vivid detail, the events of Kristallnacht as he witnessed them at age 17 from the window of his family’s apartment in an exclusive neighborhood of Frankfurt. (The mayor lived nearby, which may have spared the Neumaier home from destruction).
In slightly accented English, he described watching the beautiful Reform synagogue across the street go up in flames and the subsequent humiliation of Jewish citizens and wanton destruction of their property. His father, Otto, was taken into detention briefly, only to be returned the next day.
His mother, the famous singer, clearly was the joy of his life. “I was a real mama’s boy; I adored my mother,” he confessed.
Retired from the opera stage after his birth, his mother continued to make concert recordings and perform on the radio. She sang opposite the famed Leo Slezak (father of movie star Walter Slezak) and leading singers of the Metropolitan Opera. But invited to perform with the greatest of them all — tenor Enrico Caruso — she declined. The date coincided with the High Holy Days and she chose to spend the time worshiping with her family instead.
Hers was a second marriage. Otto Neumaier had been previously married and had a son who was a physician in America, a fact that saved his life and that of John. Upon receiving an affidavit from his older son, Otto and, eventually, the younger son, were able to emigrate. Leonore, however, was denied an exit visa, since she was only a stepmother to the American son. By the time her quota number came up — three years after her family had left — Leonore’s passage, purchased by her husband, had been sold by the shipping company to a higher bidder.
Desperate over her dwindling finances, the singer consulted a banker friend. But such meetings between Aryans and Jews were by then forbidden under the Nazi laws. A neighbor denounced them and the banker was arrested. In her concern for him, a Catholic with a large family, Leonore went to Gestapo headquarters to explain that their meeting was business.
She was immediately arrested and deported. It was many years before her son learned that she had “disappeared” in Majdanek concentration camp in 1943.
“A Voice Silenced” is on display at the Judah L. Magnes Museum, 2911 Russell St., Berkeley, through Sept. 19. Open 11 a.m. to 4 p.m., Sundays to Wednesdays, to 8 p.m. Thursdays. The exhibition is co-sponsored by the Holocaust Center of Northern California. Information: (510) 549-6950, or www.magnes.org.