For seventy years, the ledgers sat untouched in archives, their pages yellowing with age. But what they contained would shed new light on the darkest chapter of German history. Three side lamps. 15 Reichsmarks. A spherical lamp. Three Reichsmarks. A white-gold coffee set. 75 Reichsmarks. Each item meticulously cataloged, each price a stark reminder of lives dismantled.
In Leipzig, auctioneer Hans Klemm prepared precise lists of every piece of Jewish property sold between 1933 and 1945. Even the smallest items were documented: a single violin, a chess set, a small handbag. Each had a price. The proceeds from a single auction—the contents of one home—often reached thousands of Reichsmarks. Klemm kept 10% of the profits. The rest flowed into government coffers.
Klemm was no exception. Across Nazi Germany, auctioneers, bailiffs, and tax officials participated in the systematic seizure and sale of Jewish belongings. They recorded their activities with bureaucratic precision. In Berlin’s Federal Office for Stolen Property, hundreds of thousands of files remain. These are not items of great value, but everyday household goods: two small tables for eight Reichsmarks, an armchair for 67, a gas stove for 50. Kitchen utensils averaged between two and six Reichsmarks. A good deal, if one ignored the morality.
These records contradict the image of Nazi Germany we hold in our minds. These were not the fanatics, the stormtroopers of Kristallnacht, the thugs smashing windows and looting. This was bureaucratic, organized work. A Nazi system, yes, but a system nonetheless. And it was not simply random, despite its ethical horror.
The auctioneers represented one side of the equation. The buyers were the other. In Bruchsal, deep in southwest Germany, a family heirloom tells a different story. “The story was passed down in our family that this cabinet was bought at a Jewish auction,” says Ralph Schmidt, standing before the piece in his basement. His grandmother purchased it decades ago, likely never pondering its origin. She saw a beautiful cabinet at a bargain price. “Her only motivation was to own a beautiful piece of furniture that would have been unaffordable otherwise.”
How exactly were these Jewish properties auctioned? New information emerged in the Lorrach city archive when two historians found an unassuming box. It contained unique photographic negatives. The prints show citizens of Lorrach queuing to enter what was called a Jewish auction. It is November or early December 1940. The first thing you notice is the sheer number of people. Two small boys in the foreground climb the railing, craning their necks to see. Here, in the courtyards of buildings where Jewish citizens had lived until just weeks before, their belongings were sold to the highest bidder.
In one photo, the auctioneer stands on a makeshift platform, his suitcase—perhaps a cash box—beside him. Beyond the crowd, what strikes you is the festive atmosphere. In some photos, people seem to look directly at the photographer, smiling. They must have been called out to, and they gaze cheerfully at the camera. We know the prices paid were about a fifth lower than usual. A golden opportunity for savvy buyers.
It makes sense that the regime secured the loyalty of the German population by directly involving them in the theft of Jewish property. People became complicit, or rather allowed themselves to become partners in anti-Semitic expulsion and deportation. Anyone who could benefit from the sudden disappearance of their neighbors—anyone who bought the stolen goods—became an accomplice to the crime.
This profiteering began as soon as the Nazis took power. Many Jews decided to leave the country immediately. At that time, Hans Klemm’s auction house in Leipzig was still a modest business, making money from house clearances and selling confiscated goods. This is the only known photo of his shop on Fleischergasse. To the right, we can see the name “Ha” for Hans Klemm. No photos of Klemm himself survive—only the written records of his auction business. We don’t know much about what kind of person he was. He was a salesman. He kept all his accounts in order. These ledgers are all we have to rely on.
Klemm was entitled to 10% of auction proceeds as commission. Between 1933 and 1936, he earned an average of 10,000 Reichsmarks annually. As Jewish persecution increased, so did his profits. By 1938, when Jewish displacement peaked, his income more than tripled. Klemm advertised auctions in the local press. The explanation was always the same: emigration. Then came another surge in profits. Between 1939 and 1940, Klemm’s income doubled again to around 50,000 Reichsmarks annually.
The reason for this sudden boom was a new law passed by Nazi authorities in May 1939. It stipulated that Jews must be housed together in designated buildings. Large German cities did not waste time implementing the new legislation. In Leipzig alone, 47 so-called Jewish houses were established. Forced relocation to a Jewish house meant those affected had to drastically reduce their belongings. Anything they couldn’t cram into their allocated room or one-and-a-half rooms had to be legally auctioned.
The official reason for the auctions was an innocuous term: “reducing living space.” Surplus personal property was another phrase used. The Jews themselves initiated the auctions, yet they received nothing from the proceeds. Klemm paid the money into a secure bank account accessible only to the state, which then confiscated the funds. At the time, Klemm was one of only two state-approved auctioneers operating in Leipzig.
Hans Klemm thought like a businessman. He decided to participate in the large-scale expropriation of private property to make money. He chose to become a cog in this machine. Good relations with the right people could only benefit his business.
The first deportations of Jews from German territory began in October 1940 in the southwest, from Baden and the Palatinate. For the Nazi regime, these deportations were a test to see how Germans would react to the sudden disappearance of their neighbors. “Bruchsal, free of Jews” was the title of a film supposedly commissioned by the town fathers. Trucks waited, ready to transport Jewish citizens from Bruchsal to an internment camp in southern France.
Edmund Gickler recognized his childhood friend in the film footage—Leo Rosenberg, a boy from the neighborhood. “Yes, that was him. The only Jewish boy.” The entire deportation was shrouded in a gloomy, oppressive atmosphere. People walked in order and calm. Some carried bags, backpacks, or cardboard boxes. They were obedient and patient. Everything happened in public. Many local residents stood and watched. There must have been twenty or thirty people in total, and no one said a word. No one came to offer help or even ask: “What are you doing with them? Why are they being taken away? Where are they going?” No one asked these questions.
A few days later, an auction was held in Bruchsal. It took place in a tavern called Sommervin. People came and went with great enthusiasm. They left with cooking pots, bedsheets, and so on. Word spread that an auction was being held there. Edmund Gickler was six years old at the time. His mother was Polish. The family was certainly not Nazi. Yet there were all sorts of things they needed. “Because of our poverty, we talked about buying some of these cheap items, but my mother put a stop to it immediately. It was completely out of the question. She said it would be like digging in the bones of the dead.” Simply put, it was not right. So she refused.
Others said, “Ah, look, you can get bargains at these auctions.” People rushed there, eager to buy anything. Although they all knew these things had been obtained in a bad way, there were few, if any, public protests against the initial deportations now taking place across the country.
Biesingen, a small town of 1,500 near Stuttgart, was home to a Jewish community until 1941. Freddy Kuhn is the son of the only Jew from the village who survived the Holocaust. He searches for clues to explain the past. “This is the house where your father lived.” “Yes, we lived here. Everything happened here in this building, and the auctions took place in front of the house, right here in the Jewish quarter.” It was a convenient location for them. He was no longer allowed to work. It was clear where things were heading. Some had already emigrated, but it was becoming serious now. More would inevitably leave soon. And in the town, people were already thinking, well, I wouldn’t mind having that rug or that sideboard or that lamp.
Freddy Kuhn’s father was deported in November 1941 along with most of the Jewish community of Biesingen. One month later, the Kuhn family’s belongings were sold at public auction in their former home. An auction was announced for a specific time and date. So people came and waited in front of the house, and various items were displayed—from a violin to articles of clothing—from the windows, and people began bidding. They must not have paid much because no one had much money.
Stephanie Pfeiffer comes from a working-class farming family. Her father was drafted and never returned from the war. So she, her sister, and her mother began working the farm. It was very hard work, beyond their strength. And so her suitcase was damaged. Her mother bought the violin at an auction and gave it to Stephanie. “And so my love of music began. But I had to learn everything from scratch.” The violin was the beginning of the little girl’s musical education. “I’m not sure how the sound will be, but I’ll try.”
Deportations of Jews from Leipzig began in January 1942. A sign reading “Farewell, Jews” could be seen hanging on a railway bridge. The sale of Jewish property at auctions was no longer conducted in the name of the Jews themselves. Hans Klemm now worked directly for the Leipzig tax authorities and the Gestapo. Advertisements in the press openly spoke of non-Aryan property. There was no longer even an attempt to hide the truth. Klemm enjoyed another sudden surge in profits. Compared to what he earned in 1933, he now earned more than ten times that amount. In today’s money, his income equaled about $500,000.
Instead of selling the contents of each home individually as before, Hans Klemm now held bulk auctions. The first convoy carrying 559 people left Leipzig on January 21, 1942. Just three weeks later, their belongings were sold at public auction. On May 10, 287 people, including many parents with children, were sent from Leipzig to extermination camps. They had to leave everything behind, even their suitcases. The suitcases and luggage were loaded into another car, and the deportees were told they would be sent later. But everything remained in Leipzig. Just one day after the deportations, tax officials instructed Hans Klemm to collect and store the luggage. Over three consecutive days, the items were sorted, valued, and sold.
There were 118 suitcases, a women’s handbag, a backpack. Two children’s coats, two children’s trousers, six small aprons. Even a suitcase belonging to three-year-old Peter Bartfeld was offered for sale. Twelve small children’s wool sweaters, partially damaged and moth-eaten. Twelve small trousers, aprons, and shirts. Six handkerchiefs, a flannel piece, six pairs of children’s socks, three single socks, two head coverings, and some thread. The winning bidder paid 70 Reichsmarks for this collection. A mother of a small child had carefully packed all these items for their journey into the unknown. A needy citizen bought them, perhaps to resell. We don’t know for certain.
Hans Klemm’s auctions were always held a few days after the deportation of the owners of these items. On July 13, 1942, another 170 people disappeared. Their belongings were sold on July 27. The mid-September 1942 deportation was followed by a public auction on October 20. The belongings of those sent to their deaths in February 1943 were sold to the public on March 14 and 15. And so it continued.
For a long time, the German people were not significantly affected by the war. But in 1941, the Allies began bombing German cities. The massive scale of destruction meant many Germans found themselves in desperate need of furniture and household goods. In footage from German cities, we can see streets filled with furniture hastily rescued from burning buildings. Yet most of it was now unusable. Between April 24 and 27, 1942, most of Rostock’s dense historic center was destroyed. 35,000 people became homeless. There was an acute need for both housing and furniture.
That was the ideological dilemma the German people faced at the time. They were suffering crushing defeats, losing their homes. They hid in their basements. Their buildings burned and their furniture was destroyed. And it all had to be replaced somehow. But the replacements came from their mortal enemies—their Jewish enemies.
In Parchim, three Jewish men, women, and children received deportation orders. In Stavenhagen, eight people along with a woman from Rebnitz were notified. Across Mecklenburg, more than 90 Jews would be deported on a single train. Two weeks later in Schwerin, at Schmidtstrasse 15—today a café—the Lieber family’s home was cleared. The wood merchants hired to empty the apartment billed for two men for eight hours each. The janitor, a man named Frank, billed two additional hours for assisting with the clearance. One mark and 98 pfennigs. The moving company “Vorhebt Elka” also got its share. They charged 41 marks and 40 pfennigs for transporting the furniture.
The furniture confiscated from deported Schwerin Jews was stored in this building near Povendiek, which previously housed local tax authorities. It was then sold at public auction over two consecutive days. Max Kollmann was the electrician tasked with lighting the auction hall. Local art dealer Theodor Mischaian was chosen as the auctioneer. In his newspaper advertisement, Mischaian described the auction as a voluntary sale of Jewish property. The proceeds from the Lieber family’s belongings alone amounted to 1,171 marks and 20 pfennigs. The sum was transferred to the national treasury.
In Rostock, Jewish belongings were collected and stored in the Friedrich Franz Girls’ School. Today the building is part of the Academy of Music and Theatre. And here too, the auction was advertised in the local press. The youngest deportee was a four-year-old girl named Ossi Steinfeld. Her belongings were also sold at auction. It is not entirely clear whether they were her toys or her clothes. According to the auctioneer’s records, her belongings fetched 10 Reichsmarks. The auctioneer kept 50 pfennigs as his commission.
Paula Moses’s belongings from Rebnitz sold for 732 Reichsmarks and 39 pfennigs. In Antivahn, the mayor himself sold the Jewish Jacobson family’s property. Their rabbits and chickens brought 62 Reichsmarks and 25 pfennigs. In Parchim, the auction was held in the so-called Jewish house at Boldstrasse 7. Those not yet deported were forced to watch their Jewish brethren’s belongings being sold to the public by local auctioneer Otto Heiden.
Not only in Mecklenburg, but across Germany, victims of bombing raids had priority at auctions. With these vouchers, people affected by air raids could go to auctions and buy what they needed. Although their furniture had been destroyed by Anglo-American bombing, as they called it, the German public at least had the consolation of knowing they could replace what they had lost.
The German people would not see these images until after the war ended. They were taken during the liberation of Auschwitz by the Soviet Army. In the first months at Auschwitz, Jewish prisoners were gassed while fully clothed. Survivors were required to carefully remove clothing from the corpses. Their clothes were needed at home. The deportations were governed by a sense of necessity to utilize everything completely. The enemy, from an anti-Semitic perspective, had to be fully exploited for the benefit of the German people. That meant everything from the home, furniture, servants, and staff, down to the things we see in these familiar images from Auschwitz—people’s hair, their glasses, and so on.
The furniture looted from German Jews was no longer enough to meet the needs of bombing victims. The spring of 1942 saw the beginning of what was called “Möbel Aktion” or the Furniture Campaign. It involved German officials going from house to house in Western European cities like Paris and Amsterdam, searching for empty homes of Jews who had fled or been deported. In total, they emptied the contents of 69,512 apartments. These blurry photos taken by an amateur are the only record of what happened. On one hand, they were looting the empty apartments of those deported, but especially in southern France, which was only occupied later, officials also sought out the apartments of potential deportation candidates. Moving companies toured with German officials to identify people not yet deported in order to seize their furniture. Thus, the seizure of furniture became a reason for deportation or a motive for hunting down Jews.
The confiscation and sale of Jewish property was now coordinated by a special task force within the Nazi Party. Operations were managed from this building on Avenue d’Iéna in central Paris. Furniture, household goods, and clothing were brought to collection warehouses that appeared in various cities across France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. These photos were taken by a Dinla Vestun employee. Jewish detainees were forced to sort incoming items and repair damaged clothing. Here we see stolen radios being inspected and repaired. Even light bulbs underwent a brief test to ensure they worked. The looted goods were packed into crates and sent by road, sea, or rail to Germany.
Between spring 1942 and summer 1944, 674 trains with 26,984 railcars filled with confiscated Jewish property were dispatched. An additional 600 shipments were sent by ship. The exact numbers are unknown. Shipments went primarily to areas most affected by bombing. Berlin, located far to the east and not yet heavily damaged, received 528 railcars. Rostock received 703 railcars. Hamburg, large parts of which were in ruins, received 2,699 railcars. More than 3,000 railcars went to Delmenhorst. This town of barely 60,000 had seen only minor bomb damage. From here, confiscated furniture was illegally sent to other towns and cities in need. However, many transport routes were destroyed. The challenge was enormous.
In these containers, you can see the homes of all those poor people deported from France, the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg. Everything is there—from tea strainers to clothes, shoes, pictures, even a piano. All their possessions were inside. The small town was overwhelmed by chaos. There was simply too much—from furniture to other everyday items—to distribute to the public. In official papers, one name keeps appearing: Town Councillor Wilhelm Osthaus, a Nazi Party member since 1933. The council was instructed not to sell furniture and other household materials at auctions, but simply to sell them as quickly as possible. Councillor Osthaus proved to be a resourceful and diligent sales manager. He found all sorts of places to store materials—from hotels and restaurants to empty gymnasiums. He placed advertisements in newspapers, sometimes in a gymnasium, sometimes in a restaurant, sometimes in the workshop of local plumber Adolf Brinkmann. Showrooms for confiscated goods appeared throughout the city. The advertisements were very specific, listing exactly what was for sale. Osthaus even offered suggestions on how to use these materials: these pieces are suitable for furnishing a basement used as an air-raid shelter. Or one could build a rabbit hutch with these things. In one newspaper, the “Delmenhorster Kreisblatt,” more than 50 advertisements appeared within a year and a half. There was so much goods that restrictions limiting sales to bombing victims were soon lifted. Now anyone could buy them.
Newspapers from neighboring towns give a similar impression. In Oldenburg too, countless sales were reported. It all ended up in the living rooms, cupboards, kitchens, and homes of German citizens. “I think everyone knew where these things came from.” “Why do you think that?” “Because after the war, when the military government called on residents to register the things they had bought, or demanded they do so, they were clearly labeled as Jewish furniture. Even the buyers themselves called it Jewish furniture.”
In early 1945, the war ended. The victors found a country in ruins. Had the story of Jewish furniture and its unscrupulous beneficiaries ended? These scenes were filmed in Leipzig. A look at the numbers highlights an interesting development. Although Hans Klemm’s income during the war had been very good, his profits in 1945, 1946, and 1947 saw another dramatic increase, reaching over 600,000 Reichsmarks. The aftermath of war is always a good time for auctioneers, because many people are in dire poverty and trying to sell their possessions so they don’t starve. Klemm made a good profit from this.
It must be said: the refugees streaming from the East included a number of Jews returning to Germany—survivors of concentration and extermination camps. Among them was Freddy’s father. Of course, people were surprised to see him. No one really expected Jews to return at all. Harry Kuhn not only returned—he rebuilt his cattle trading business and started a family. Little Freddy was born in 1947. “My father returned from the camp with a certain toughness, if you will. He started going into people’s houses and asking if he could take a look. Or maybe he didn’t ask. He just walked in. And anyone who had nothing to hide said, ‘Take a look. There’s nothing of yours here.’”
I too began to care about all these lost things. I often asked myself where they ended up. These things still exist. In fact, they are being used. After the war, the pastor brought musicians together. We were violinists, mandolin players, guitarists, a pianist. We played waltzes and other beautiful music. We played for young people at their dances. There was no radio or anything like that. And through playing the violin, I became interested in playing the organ. It was common, very common.
And one day, out of the blue, I received a call from Mrs. Pfeiffer from Biesingen. Six years ago, Mrs. Pfeiffer returned the violin her mother had bought her to Mr. Kuhn. “If it were in tune, I would play you something.” “But why didn’t you decide to keep the violin?” “Well, because they told me I’m 80 years old now, and when I’m gone, they’ll throw all this stuff away, and this violin should never be thrown away. No, I wanted to make sure it ended up somewhere. So I called Mr. Kuhn and he came to pick it up. Now it has returned to where it belongs.”
Stephanie, may I ask you something? It just occurred to me. Have you heard of other things taken from Jewish homes—things that their new owners particularly cherished, like your violin? “No one talked about that in Biesingen. No, the woman from the party would display things from the window and people could bid on them.” Freddy Kuhn has not left Biesingen. He returns often to visit the Jewish cemetery at the edge of the village. His parents are buried here. “Did anyone ever come to your father over the years and say, ‘Look, this is something I bought at an auction’?” “No, I can’t recall that happening.”
Yet returning an item is not always easy. For years, Ralph Schmidt has been trying to find the original owner of his cabinet. On the back is a label believed to provide a clue. “So, let’s take a look. It’s a bit tilted, I think. Can you see? It’s good. Can you read what’s written? No, not really. Something about an auction, and something about Mannheim.” He had already contacted the Mannheim city archive and asked if the parts he could read on the label meant anything to them, but they replied that they had no papers and did not know where it might have come from. Ralph Schmidt’s grandparents came from Hemsbach, about 60 km north of Bruchsal. This is the only remaining trail.
Yesterday he spoke by phone with someone in Hemsbach from the church association. They said they were interested in the cabinet. “Perhaps it will return to Hemsbach, to where it came from.” “That’s what I hope. Perhaps it will be displayed in the small museum set up in the church. That’s where I hope it ends up. To remind people of everything that happened.” “Exactly. And for the cabinet to find its way home. I think that’s important.”
In June 1948, fate caught up with Hans Klemm. He was arrested, charged, and tried in the Leipzig District Court. His defense—that he was only following orders—did not help him much in Soviet-occupied East Germany. His Nazi Party membership and his profiting from Nazi crimes spoke for themselves. On March 28, 1949, he was sentenced to two and a half years in prison and banned from working as an auctioneer for 10 years. Today we say he got what he deserved. And this serves as a warning to us all. Consider what you might become involved in.
Yet Hans Klemm’s prison sentence proved to be the exception. The vast majority of auctioneers, bailiffs, and tax officials who participated in the theft of Jewish property were never tried for their crimes in either East or West Germany. The responsibility for pursuing complex and lengthy compensation or restitution claims fell on the victims themselves. The problem with these restitution claims was that the burden of proof lay with the victims. They had to prove what had been theirs. But they did not have, as one prosecutor at the time said, a suitcase full of receipts for their possessions with them in Auschwitz. So how could they prove what had been theirs? And if the case reached court, they were the witnesses. And these witnesses were often the very same bailiffs or tax officials. They testified not as defendants but as witnesses. And they usually claimed that the papers related to the matter had been destroyed in the war.
Well, the papers are right in front of me. They clearly show the lists these people prepared of all the items sold at auction. So, by claiming the evidence had been destroyed, they were simply lying. Nor were those who bought the items—whose names were often part of the detailed written records—held accountable. Almost none of them voluntarily returned the items to their rightful owners.
It is safe to assume that many of our parents and grandparents still possess some of these items, and that these items were acquired illegally during the persecution of the Jews. The ledgers remain. The cabinets remain. The violins remain. And the question remains: what will we do with what we have inherited?
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