Documenting the Plunder of Jewish Art during WWII

In 1944, while Hungarian Jews were being forcibly relocated into ghettos, some soldiers took on roles as clerks—using pens and rubber stamps to catalog what was seized. They meticulously noted down details in typed documents, such as, “Munkács, oil paintings on canvas… 18th century German oil paintings… 843 carpets… 4,500 books.”

These records span roughly 2,500 pages of microfilm originating from Dr. Denes Sanki’s office, who was the “government commissioner” overseeing Hungarian Jewish art assets. The documents are curated by Holocaust scholar Randolph L. Braham.

For many years, accessing this microfilm was quite challenging, often overlooked. However, this year, following our initiative, the World Jewish Reparations Organization funded the project to digitize and upload these scans.

My team at the Holocaust Art Recovery Initiative dedicated several months to review each page and share findings on social media, resulting in over 470 posts. These posts included detailed information like names, addresses, artists, measurements, crate numbers, and notes from museums.

This research arrives alongside increasing pressure from Washington for the art sector to confront its role in handling art stolen during the Nazi era.

Recently, the Senate Judiciary Committee unanimously advanced a bipartisan bill that aims to bolster the Holocaust Appropriation Art Recovery Act and remove the expiration date initially set for the end of 2026.

Enacted in 2016, the original HEAR Act was intended to ensure Holocaust-era art cases would be evaluated based on their merits rather than dismissed due to technical time constraints. The new legislation highlights that much remains to be done, with time running short.

At the same time, museums and collectors are now encountering renewed scrutiny regarding looted artworks. For instance, a portrait by an old Italian master was found in a property in Argentina, while Egon Schiele’s sketches and Claude Monet’s paintings were returned to their rightful heirs with assistance from Manhattan’s legal authorities.

Additionally, a Van Gogh previously sold by the Metropolitan Museum of Art appears to be enveloped in legal issues. Almost weekly, headlines emerge under the “One Picture” theme, reminiscent of the extensive details in the Hungarian microfilm.

Each document captures how Jewish collections were systematically removed and transferred to still-active public institutions, showcasing the state’s distinct style of documentation.

One file outlines how the state split the items from Baroness Hatvany-Deutsch’s estate, sending weapons and Habsburg portraits to the War Museum and artworks to another institution.

Interestingly, there seems to be a pattern of one address, one victim, yet two national museums. Another file lists the collection of the widow Aladarne Kazab, which included notable works like Jacob Jordaens’ “Philemon and Baucis” and Cranach’s “The Last Supper”, along with a Meissen clock.

Some of the best pieces ended up in museums, while others were auctioned to fund various systems.

In files pertaining to the Strauss family, artworks by artists like Delacroix and Courbet are documented as “Pal Strauss paintings”, complete with measurements and signatures.

The Hatvany family castle files reveal numerous artworks cataloged by their size and status as state property, carefully monitored at the Budapest Museum of Fine Arts.

Countless instances illustrate this extensive pattern. For example, in Baja, the City Museum’s director recorded over 1,000 artifacts from designated Jewish homes, proposing their preservation in a centralized deposit.

In Nagyvarad, authorities seized more than 1,500 artworks and thousands of books from Jewish residences. In Pécs, a detailed report tracks the transition of property from the ghetto to the city museum, describing how carpets were tossed off balconies and statues were carried upright.

This isn’t just speculation or fading memories. It’s a detailed record that includes the names and addresses of affected Jewish families, artists, measurements, box numbers, railroad lines, and even fuel certificates.

These reels transform moral outrage into verifiable evidence—demonstrating not only that Jewish collections were stolen, but also detailing their subsequent whereabouts and the signature trails leading to various institutions.

They counter any claims of “abandoned property” and discredit narratives suggesting provenance began conveniently in the 1950s. Museums showcasing Hungarian artworks with gaps in ownership records from 1938 to 1948, or collectors buying “Central European private collections” at New York auctions, need to pay attention; this archive represents considerable accountability.

It’s reminiscent of uncovering countless “Woman in Gold” files all at once.

The HEAR Act was designed to ensure heirs receive fair legal recourse, and this updated version seeks to uphold that commitment beyond 2026. Yet, without acknowledgment from museums and market participants regarding this critical evidence, the act’s purpose could falter.

After lingering in the archives for years, this Hungarian microfilm is now translated and indexed online, making it challenging to ignore.

Congress is making strides, and judicial systems are taking note. Major museums once again find themselves under substantial scrutiny.

I have run out of justifications.