It is with profound sadness, that the world has lost another Holocaust survivor, KalmanAron. Mr. Aron died in a hospice in Santa Monica, California, Feb 24th, with his son, David Aron, at his side.
I first met Kalman a little over a year ago, at his humble home and painting studio in Beverly Hills. His spirit and personality were that of a much younger man than the 93-year-old gentleman that was in front of me.
He gave me an incredible tour of his modest home, and then gave me the history of a few of the hundreds of master artworks that were all over the apartment. I felt like I was getting a tour of a miniature Louvre. Every painting was a masterpiece;It was beyond impressive.
Our first meeting was a lovely time, as lovely, as a person could have. Kalman allowed me to film him for the first two hours, and gave me the rights to his life story. We then broke bread and spent time talking about his career and his time in seven Nazi concentration camps.
“I made it through the Holocaust with a pencil,” Kalman declared, with a Cheshire cat grin.
A Nazi guard came before him with a machine gun, and he was able to draw an exact portrait of the guard in real time. The guard was so impressed that this was the beginning of a Kalman Aron seven Nazi concentration camp tour.
What makes Mr. Aron’s story so very different and unique than any other Holocaust story that one has heard, was that he was treated relatively well, during the entire four and one-half years he was interned.
“I would tell the Commandant or the guard I was painting, if I could just get a little more cheese and bread, I could paint much quicker,” he said with a smile. “This worked often,” says Kalman.
He then told me he was even able to get the Nazis guards to give him extra blankets.
“I had to always be thinking,” said Kalman.
The next time I would meet Kalman, I would bring a very special guest. Now that I had the rights to his life story, I began looking for partners and Executive Producers. I had met Norman Lear 10 years earlier, when he had written me a sizable check for my award-winning film, “Unbeaten.”
I called Norman up, and told him about this incredible man, and asked if he had time to meet him. Mr. Lear did not flinch. The meeting was set, and on a warm Tuesday morning in September 2017, I walked into Kalmans home with the greatest and kindest most iconic TV producer in the history of Television.
When these two nonagenarian’s met, it was like they had known each other all of there lives. There was laughter. There were tears, and there was great admiration for one another as artists. There was also great profoundness as Norman was a B-17 gunner and radio man, and actually dropped bombs very close to where Kalman was interned. The Nazis could not kill Kalman, and neither could Norman Lear!
The next few months, I would have dinner and lunch with Kalman a few times, and I was very fortunate to be able to have NPR do a global story on him on the program, The World, with Marco Werman. Little did I know at the time, this would be my last time seeing Kalman.
In early January, Kalman took a fall, and would be admitted to Cedars. Always the fighter, he was released in a week, and was back home painting. A month later he would take a turn for the worse, and on Feb. 24th, the world lost one of its greatest global citizens.
My time with Mr. Aron was brief, but very, very rich. He produced thousands of paintings through out his long life, including portraits of Ronald Reagan, Henry Miller and Andre Previn, just to name a few. Kalman was the father of ‘”Psychological Realism”
Kalman brought love, joy and peace to all who knew him. Mr. Aron beat the Nazis with a pencil, and he strove for greatness in everything he did. Kalman Aron was a master painter, and very great man. Kalman personified all that is good in human kind. He will be missed.
Steven C Barber is a writer ,director and producer residing in Santa Monica, California. His work can be found at www.vanillafire.com.
Kalman Aron is a prolific artist. Even during his internment at seven Nazi camps, he didn’t stop drawing — and his artwork saved his life.
“I probably have in Germany a hundred drawings, drawings of soldiers,” the 92-year-old artist said during a recent interview. “They wouldn’t pay me anything, but I would get a piece of bread, something to eat. Without that, I wouldn’t be here.”
Speaking in the living room of his modest Beverly Hills apartment, Aron was surrounded by his artwork, collected over decades. Paintings are stacked five and six deep against each wall, with more in his bedroom and even more in a basement storeroom.
Aron immigrated to Los Angeles in 1949 and built a life, a career and a circle of friends. They were artists and musicians. Now, apart from his wife and a part-time caretaker, it’s his paintings that keep him company.
“I don’t have anybody to talk with,” he said. “All my friends are gone. I had probably 15 friends. They were much older than me. I was the youngest one. And then suddenly, nobody here. I have drawings of them. A lot of drawings in the back there. Filled that room downstairs, filled up completely.”
Aron was born with a preternatural talent for portraiture. At 3, he was drawing likenesses of family friends in Riga, Latvia. At 7, he had a one-man show at a local gallery. At 13, he won a commission to paint the prime minister of Latvia. He was 16 years old and a student at Riga’s art academy in 1941 when the Germans occupied the country.
Seven camps, four marriages and nearly 80 years later, he’s proven to be a resourceful and dogged survivor. In the long and circuitous course of his life, art and survival have gone hand in hand.
Kalman Aron in his Beverly Hills apartment in June. Photo by Tess Cutler
It began in the ghetto in Riga, when he did a pencil drawing of a guard and showed it to him. The guard liked it enough to spread the word about his talent. The formula repeated itself over and over in the coming years of persecution and hardship.
Still, for a Jew to have writing materials in the camps was considered a risk, so German troops who wanted a likeness would hide him in a locked barrack while he drew them or worked from a photograph to draw their relatives.
“Once I did a portrait and other people liked it, they would do the same thing: lock me in the room, not let me out,” he said.
Aron managed to leverage his skill anywhere he spent a significant amount of time, particularly the Riga ghetto and the labor camps of Poperwahlen in Latvia and Rehmsdorf in Germany. In each place, he attracted a clientele of rank-and-file soldiers and high-ranking officers who rewarded him with scraps of food and pulled him out of hard labor.
What seems like lifetimes later, he believes painting still keeps him alive today.
“Friends of mine, they get old and they don’t know what to do, and they die of boredom,” he said in his dining room, his eyes widening with intensity. “Boredom! And I’ll never die of boredom, as long as I have a piece of paper.”
‘Mother and Child’
Decades before he spoke openly about what he saw during the Holocaust, Aron painted it.
Until 1994, when he was interviewed by the USC Shoah Foundation, he tended not to describe what he had seen. But during those long decades of silence, he produced a number of artworks — in oil, watercolor, pastel and charcoal — depicting his memories of that trying time.
“Mother and Child” (1951), pastel on paper on a board
There was Aron at the head of a line of inmates on a forced march. There was Aron at Buchenwald, sleeping outside with a rock for a pillow. There were haggard portraits of fellow inmates.
But the most well-known of these paintings is “Mother and Child,” which now hangs in the lobby of the Los Angeles Museum of the Holocaust.
Aron moved to Los Angeles in 1949 with a young wife, $4 in his pocket and zero English proficiency after finishing art school in Vienna. In 1951, he had a job illustrating maps in Glendale when one day, he decided to glue two city maps to a board to create an 8-foot-tall canvas.
He brought home the oversized sheet, and after four or five nights of laboring past midnight, he finished a pastel, showing a scene he had witnessed many times in the camps: a mother clutching her child tightly to her face, as if they were one, bound together no matter what abuse they might have to face.
As he worked on the painting, he recalled, “I wasn’t feeling. I saw it happening.”
He went on, “I just said, ‘I’m going to put it on paper.’ I wanted to draw them. That’s why.”
“Mother and Child” sat in his studio for nearly 60 years as he found himself unable to part with it, the glue he used to create the canvas bleeding slowly through the paper to create a brownish tint. Today, it is considered one of his masterpieces.
At the time he painted it, Aron was unable to put his trauma into words. During his later Shoah Foundation interview, as a videographer switched tapes, Aron chatted with the interviewer, a fellow survivor, apparently unaware that audio still was being recorded, and described his difficulty.
“About 30 years ago, I couldn’t do it,” he said. “I couldn’t do it. I would choke up if I did it. I’m fine now.”
Sherri Jacobs, an art therapist outside Kansas City, Mo., told the Journal that art sometimes enables survivors of trauma to express what they otherwise could not. Jacobs has conducted an art therapy workshop at a Jewish retirement home near Kansas City for 15 years, working with many Holocaust survivors. Though they rarely paint explicitly about their Holocaust experience, as Aron has, creative expression nonetheless helps put shape and form to their trauma, she said.
“They can express things in a metaphorical way,” she said, “in a way that it’s leaving their mind, leaving their body and going on paper.”
Painting men and monsters
Drawing in the camps, Aron said he was not thinking of his hatred or fear of his subjects — only of surviving.
In Poperwahlen, for instance, the camp commandant gave Aron a photograph of his parents and ordered him to draw a miniature that could fit in a locket mounted on a ring.
Aron had seen Jews randomly beaten or shot by guards at the camp. More than anything, he was thinking about his own survivalas the commandant locked him in a barrack with a pencil and paper.
“I mean, in my head is, ‘Am I going to be alive tomorrow?’ ” Aron said in his apartment nearly eight decades later. “Watching them killing the Jews was terrible, terrible, terrible. I have very bad nights sleeping here.”
The task could have taken him two days, he said. But he stretched it over more than a week for the exemption it afforded him from back-breaking labor.
It’s difficult for Aron to estimate how many portraits he drew. He knew only that the same interaction repeated itself many times with Nazi troops.
“Wherever I was, I made sure I had a piece of paper and pencil,” he said.
As the months passed, he parlayed his skill into gaining more materials, piecing together a sheaf of drawings that he carried with him. Observing his assured manner and his materials, camp guards mostly left him alone.
“When they saw that, they knew, ‘Don’t touch this guy, he’s doing something for us,’ ” he said.
By the end of the war, his skill accounted for perhaps an extra 5 pounds on his skeletal frame, he told the Shoah Foundation interviewer — a small but critical difference.
“There also were people that were tailors and shoemakers,” he said in 1994. “They would also get fed much better. They were indoors. They would sew, you know. These are the kind of people that had more of a chance of survival than a guy who was digging ditches.”
Reclaiming a world of light and color
Jacobs, the art therapist, said understanding Holocaust survivors as the product of a single experience can be misleading, traumatic though it may have been. And in trying to understand Aron through his art, putting the Holocaust constantly front and center would indeed be a mistake.
Of the hundreds of paintings that line his apartment, relatively few deal with the Holocaust. More often, they are landscapes of the places he’s visited, views from his balcony looking out at downtown L.A. and portraits of the women he’s loved. Prominently displayed is a 2006 oil portrait of Miriam Sandoval Aron, his fourth and current wife, straight-backed, wearing a baseball cap during their honeymoon in Hawaii.
His earliest landscapes in Los Angeles are often devoid of color: A rambling house in Bunker Hill is rendered in shades of gray with no sign of life; a monochromatic landscape of Silver Lake shows not a single inhabitant. But soon enough, he took to painting colorful tableaus of the city at various times of day.
Eventually, he made enough money to rent a West Hollywood studio with high ceilings and northern light, where he hosted parties that lasted until sunrise. Over the years, his art has been exhibited at several museums and galleries, including the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the Los Angeles Art Association and the Seattle Art Museum. He has painted a number of celebrities and public figures, including novelist Henry Miller, pianist and composer André Previn and then-Gov. Ronald Reagan of California.
For months at a time, he traveled through North America and Western Europe — though never to Germany — stopping whenever he was moved to paint.
His third wife, Tanis Furst, described one such incident to author Susan Beilby Magee for “Into the Light: The Healing Light of Kalman Aron” (2012), a book of Aron’s art, framed by interviews with the artist.
In 1969, driving through Montreal during a trip across Canada, Aron pulled over in a rundown part of town to paint a house where a woman lived with dozens of cats.
“This happened all the time on this trip,” Furst said. “He would drive along and stop: ‘Gotta paint that.’ We had a lot of fun.”
A short while later, Aron’s only son David was born.
“I was a very happy guy when my son was born,” he says in the book. “In fact, it was the happiest day of my life.”
Telling his story
Even in 2003, when Magee first set out to write “Into the Light,” she said she found Aron profoundly ambivalent about telling his story of sorrow and survival.
In an interview with the Journal, Magee said that while part of Aron seemed to be saying “It’s time to tell, the pain of not remembering is greater than the pain of remembering;” another voice was telling him “You survived because you were invisible; do not tell your story; do not be seen; to be seen is to be killed.”
Magee had spent more than a decade in Washington, D.C., working in government, before quitting in the late 1980s to pursue hypnotherapy, meditation and energy healing. One thing she was not was a writer.
But that didn’t deter Aron. Sitting down for lunch in Palm Springs in 2003 with Magee and her mother, one of his earliest and most ardent patrons, he suddenly fixed upon Magee with his blue-eyed gaze.
“Completely out of the blue,” she recalled, “he turns to me and says, ‘Susan, will you write my story?’ He is a highly intuitive man, and somehow he knew he could trust me to do it.”
“Self Portrait” (1954); “Self Portrait” (1967), oil on canvas; “Self Portrait” (1994), oil on foam core
Although he had produced numerous paintings dealing with the Holocaust, he had been hesitant to speak about it, even with those closest to him.
“Kalman shared some things about his family and the Holocaust, but not in a great deal of detail,” Furst says in the book.
Nonetheless, after his 2003 encounter with Magee, he consented to 18 hours of interviews with her. Later, she traveled to Europe to retrace his steps. Nine years after she set out, the book was published, with a release party at the Museum of Tolerance in Los Angeles.
Recently, Aron agreed to be featured in an upcoming documentary about his life and art, backed by television producer Norman Lear.
“We’re going for the Oscar on this thing, and you can quote me on that,” said Edward Lozzi, Aron’s longtime publicist who introduced him to the documentary’s director and executive producer, Steven C. Barber.
Aron said he hopes the extra publicity will help him sell paintings and pay rent, which even at his advanced age continues to be a concern. But in general, he’s content to sit at home and paint.
Though Aron sometimes struggles to remember words and names, he remains spirited enough, painting for hours each day and eagerly engaging visitors in conversation. “I can manage six languages,” he said. “But I can’t remember people’s names.”
Magee said she believes that through telling his story, Aron has at long last found peace.
“His willingness to tell his story — to finally remember after suppressing it all those years — gave him that freedom to paint for the joy of it,” Magee said.
These days, his paintings are mainly non-objective rather than representative.
“I used to go to the park,” he said, sitting in an airy corner of his apartment, next to the kitchen, where he keeps his home studio. “I used to meet people. Now, I’m not allowed to drive at my age. So I’m here all the time.”
Lacking subjects for portraiture, Aron paints sheet after sheet of shapes and colors.
“I enjoy the design, the design,” he said, holding up a recent painting, a set of undulating neon waves. “Movement, movement. This moves, it doesn’t stay still.”
Aron considers himself lucky to have a gift and a passion that keeps him occupied into his old age.
“My situation may be a little bit better than some people who came out of the camps,” he told Magee during their interviews. “They may have nothing else to do but watch television and think about those bad days in the camps. I did that in the beginning, but I got away from thinking about it by doing portraits, landscapes, traveling and painting. I think that kept me away from all this agony of ‘How did I survive?’ or ‘Why did I survive?’
“I did, and that’s it.”
Why Mariah Carey is being grilled about an Israeli corruption scandal
On a June day in 1941, Kalman Aron, then 17, hurried with his parents and older brother to Riga’s railway station, hoping they’d be able to escape to the Soviet Union before the Germans occupied Latvia. But as they neared the station, they saw Latvian soldiers machine-gunning the Jews already gathered there. “There was yelling, screaming, crying,” said Kalman, who remembers seeing bodies sprawled on the ground. He and his family hastily retreated, only to encounter two Latvians shooting from the rooftop of the five-story apartment building in front of their house. Kalman’s brother was hit in the shoulder, but they kept running, entering the building’s front door, then running out the back to reach their house. “Everybody was frightened,” Kalman recalled.
Kalman was born Sept. 14, 1924, in Riga, Latvia, to Chaim and Sonia Aron. His brother, Henech, was five years older.
The family lived on the first floor of a small house where Chaim, a women’s shoe designer, also maintained his workshop. Chaim’s brother David and his family lived upstairs.
As far back as he can remember, Kalman loved to draw. At age 4, his father bought him a small easel. Three years later, his charcoal and pencil portraits were exhibited in a local gallery, selling out in one day.
Word of Kalman’s talent spread, and at 14 he was commissioned to paint an oil portrait of Latvia’s president, Karlis Ulmanis. Ulmanis then arranged for Kalman to enter the Art Academy of Latvia. “I was the youngest person to attend,” Kalman said.
After the Soviets occupied Latvia in June 1940, Kalman was tasked with painting a mural of Soviet soldiers atop a globe on a building five stories high.
About a year later, in early July 1941, Germany occupied Latvia, instigating large-scale persecutions of the country’s Jews. Almost immediately, Latvian soldiers, working for the Nazis, pounded on Kalman’s front door. Sonia quickly hid the boys in a wardrobe in the back bedroom, but the soldiers took Kalman’s father and uncle. “We never saw them again,” Kalman said.
By mid-August, the Germans began relocating Riga’s Jews to the ghetto, where Kalman and Henech shared a small room with two brothers, and Sonia lived elsewhere.
As slave laborers, Kalman and Henech were trucked out of the ghetto every morning; Kalman worked long days in a factory sorting fur coats for Luftwaffe pilots headed to the Soviet Union, and Henech was assigned to a furniture factory.
One evening, Kalman and Henech returned to find the ghetto eerily empty and their mother gone. After awhile, a few people emerged from cellars, where they had been hiding. Kalman later learned that thousands of Jews had been rounded up and marched to the Rumbula Forest, where, after being forced to undress and lie face down in a pit, German Einsatzgruppen (mobile killing units) and their Latvian collaborators shot them in the head. This was one of two aktions, which took place on Nov. 30 and Dec. 8, 1941, in which approximately 26,000 Jews were murdered. Two years later, as the ghetto was being liquidated, Kalman and Henech, along with others, were trucked to Kaiserwald, a concentration camp outside Riga. When they arrived, they were told to undress, ostensibly to shower, and then forced to stand naked for hours in the bitter cold.
About two weeks later, Kalman and Henech were shipped on separate transports to Poperwahlen, a small, forced-labor camp.
One time, as Kalman and several others were carting away a tree they had felled, Kalman heard his bone in his shoulder crack. But with a gun-toting guard standing nearby, he couldn’t stop. “If I dropped the tree, I would be dead,” he said. To this day, one of his shoulders is lower than the other.
At Poperwahlen, Kalman made a drawing of a German guard. “I could do a good likeness in five minutes,” he said. Seeing it, the camp commandant locked Kalman in a room, giving him a photograph of his parents and instructing him to draw miniature portraits to fit a locket ring. Kalman continued to draw for the Germans, receiving a sandwich or loaf of bread for his efforts.
The prisoners were moved to Dundaga, another forced-labor camp, and then, in the summer of 1944, marched to the Baltic Sea and taken by boat to Stutthof concentration camp. There, Kalman found his brother. “We were very happy, of course,” he said. But the reunion was short-lived, as soon afterward, Kalman was transported to Buchenwald, arriving on Aug. 16.
Next, he was transferred to Rehmsdorf, a subcamp near Leipzig, where he and the other prisoners worked in a synthetic-fuel refinery. Blaring sirens often interrupted their work, warning of Allied air raids, sending prisoners and Germans outside. One day, a bomb exploded on a hill behind the factory, burying Kalman up to his eyes with dirt.
Around April 6, with Allied artillery sounding in the distance, the prisoners were again loaded onto cattle cars. But the tracks had been bombed, and the train was stranded for four days with the prisoners trapped inside with no food or water.
When the train began moving, the Allies resumed bombing. The train again stopped, and many prisoners escaped into the woods. Kalman hid in a deserted house but later rejoined the captured prisoners. “If I stayed there, I would have been dead,” he said. They were marched to Theresienstadt, 52 miles over four days.
Soon after they arrived, on May 9, Soviet troops entered Theresienstadt. “You can’t imagine how happy we were,” Kalman said.
But then some Soviet soldiers trucked Kalman, along with five others — all Latvians and Lithuanians, considered Soviet citizens — to a bombed-out house in Czechoslovakia. Afraid they’d be drafted into the Soviet army, they escaped, making their way to Prague.
From there, Kalman eventually reached Salzburg, where he lived with other displaced persons in Camp Herzl.
In the camp, Kalman drew portraits, which resulted in his receiving a full scholarship to the Academy of Fine Arts in Viennain 1946. There, he found housing and food in short supply, but, he said, “I was determined to finish art school.”
In the summer of 1949, Kalman and his wife, Trude (Gertrude) Schneider, immigrated to the United States, settling in Los Angeles.
After a six-month stint painting ceramics at a Glendale company, Kalman got a job making maps for Fairchild Aerial Surveys in downtown Los Angeles. A year later, he quit to pursue his art.
Kalman began sketching portraits of children at a school across from his and Trude’s house in Silver Lake. He then began to earn money painting portraits of children.
Kalman and Trude divorced in 1956. After a second marriage ended, Kalman married Tanis Furst in 1968, divorcing sometime after their son, David, was born in February 1970.
Kalman had continued to search for his brother Henech, finally learning from the Red Cross around 1960 that he was living in Latvia and was married with four children. Fearing that he’d be detained in Latvia, however, Kalman was never able to visit him. But they corresponded, and, in the 1960s and ’70s, occasionally spoke by telephone, up until Henech’s death (Kalman is unsure of the date).
Kalman has done portraits of Ronald Reagan, Andre Previn and Henry Miller, among others. His work, which also features landscapes, has been exhibited nationally in museums and galleries and locally at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the Los Angeles Museum of the Holocaust. He is currently engaged in nonobjective painting, a unique style he calls “Kalmanism.”
Now 90 and married to Miriam Sandoval since Nov. 22, 2005, Kalman continues to work full time, often drawing or painting until midnight or later.
Kalman first told his story to the Shoah Foundation in 1994. More recently, he collaborated with Susan B. Magee on “Into the Light: The Healing Art of Kalman Aron,” published in 2012 (kalmanaron.com) and available on Amazon.
Kalman credits his art for saving his life. “If I didn’t have pencil and paper, I would have been dead in the ghetto,” he said.