Art of a Jewish Woman: The True Story of How a Penniless Holocaust Escapee Became an Influential Modern Art Connoisseur (formerly titled Felice's Worlds)

Art of a Jewish Woman: The True Story of How a Penniless Holocaust Escapee Became an Influential Modern Art Connoisseur (formerly titled Felice's Worlds)

Henry Massie

Language: English

Pages: 220

ISBN: B0079Q0HU6

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

First she escaped the Holocaust and the poverty of the shtetl. After that, she moved in many worlds. And in every one she made her mark.

"Henry Massie never blinks as he creates an astonishing chronicle of a life in diaspora. Only a son could capture this passionate spirit, who escaped both Adolf Hitler and Joe McCarthy." -Patty Friedmann, author of Too Jewish

Art of a Jewish Woman is a memoir and biography of Massie's mother, a brilliant and beautiful woman who escaped the Holocaust and participated in many of the most critical periods of the 20th Century. One part historical biography, weaving World War II era European cultural relationships with the history of Modern Art, and one part inspirational romance, it paints a vivid portrait of Felice as an indomitable spirit, her boldness and resilience a beacon of hope.

"The most clear expose on the Holocaust and European history that I've read outside of text books ... A mesmerizing, rare and unforgettable read." -A Bookish Libraria

"A biography that chronicles an amazing life ... Vivid rather than stuffy." -A Universe in Words

From the author:

I had listened to my mother’s tales all my life and wanted to share them. She was an escapee from a Polish shtetl wiped out by the Nazis, a high-school political activist in Lithuania, a university student in France who lost her first love tragically, a partisan for Arab-Jewish co-existence in Palestine who was caught in the first intifada in 1936, and a penniless arrival to America in 1937.

Yet when she died she had amassed one of the most important collections of Modern Art in the world and was a university lecturer on the subject.

When she was lecturing on modern art at Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri, young women flocked to her. She advised them on their love-life and mentored them in their education. She never spoke of the Feminist movement, however one of her college students said height of feminism in the 1970s, "She was the quintessential modern woman. That short hair [like Audrey Hepburn's], those clothes [colorful folkloric during the day, black skirt to the knee with a black top in the evening], that lovely petite body with the big brown eyes. She was alive, forceful, independent and challenging."

In writing about her, I understood for the first time how her experience of losing loved ones to the Nazis had been passed on to her American son.

But as a psychiatrist, I was drawn to Felice’s story because it shows so much resilience in the face of terrible emotional trauma. Her life dramatizes how just keeping on through days of having nothing but a belief that "someday I will have something," can be a powerful survival tool.


Inside the stone building, a British officer examined passenger's travel documents. When Felice's turn came, the crisply uniformed colonel looked at her bare shoulders and her short beige and cream linen dress. A marriage certificate issued the day before by a rabbi in Beirut said they were husband and wife. The man looked malnourished. He had a red beard and long ear-locks, and large spectacles covered his face. His black suit was all dusty, and his head was covered with a large Hassidic black fedora. The couple did not speak to each other. The colonel was under orders to do his part at the border to stop the flow of illegal immigrants into Palestine. He asked Felice first in English, which she didn't know, then in French, "Are the two of you married?"

"Yes, of course," she answered him.

"What language do you have in common?" he continued, probing the ruse.

But Felice and her newly certificated husband had no language in common. He spoke Arabic and Hebrew, and she Polish, French, German, Yiddish, and some Russian. "The Language of love," she said in perfect melodious French, not missing a beat, flirting with the colonel.

He stamped her entry visa.

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toward and support for Jewish migration. The Arab High Committee was pressing the mandate to forbid land sales to Keren Heyesod and stop immigration. Jews were intensely lobbying the British government to demonstrate its commitment to the Balfour Jewish homeland declaration. Palestinians and regional Arab states were threatening to throw their allegiance in the direction of Germany, as it too menaced England with war, if the British continued to consider dividing the land into two states. “You

on July 7, 1940 in a rabbi’s study in University City. Esther Kreiger was there to give Felice away. Also present were Edward’s mother Rose, his brother Joel, and his best friends from high school, Toby Lewin, Ted Marcus, and Ben Senturia. Ted and Ben had also gone to medical school with Edward, and Ted was soon to join the army. He would be severely wounded in the invasion of Normandy in June 1944, after which he couldn’t continue his career as a surgeon because his right hand was mangled; he

you sexually intimate?” “Everything but,” she answered. “Thank God,” the professor answered. “It’s a syphilitic gumma.” It was the first appearance of congenital syphilis that Samy’s father had passed on to him through sex with his mother when she was pregnant. His mother had been spared. The spirochete had lain fallow, encapsulated in a cyst somewhere in Samy’s body. The disease was endemic in Europe at the time, and in fact some people lived their whole lives without knowing they were

thirteen-year-olds, “Our Bible also calls for good race relations, and yet you live in a world where apartheid is in the air, and clamorous voices demand segregation, daily humiliation for men, women, and children, in schools and public conveyances, and places of amusement. Maybe that is why the Bible taught us, ‘Remember that ye were slaves in the land of Egypt.’ The memory of the tragic experience of our fathers must make us sympathetic with the humiliation and degradation of other peoples.

Pollock. It was about three feet high and five feet long, teeming with mostly green and black tangles and white lacunae. “Jackson Pollock was the greatest living painter at that time, but I never felt intimidated. Sidney had never before met a young woman coming in by herself to buy a painting, but it was easy for me. If anything, he should have felt intimidated by me, because I scrutinized everything. It felt as natural as the day I was born. I only felt I liked the painting and wanted to have

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