His life was not in danger under the Nazis, but his soul was. He chose exile over a devil's bargain.
Adolf Busch, the greatest German violinist of the 20th century, is now known only to classical-record collectors who treasure the searchingly eloquent 78s that he cut with Rudolf Serkin, his son-in-law and recital partner, and the Busch Quartet, the ensemble that he led for three decades. But there is another reason to remember him, one that in the long run may well count for as much as the music that he made: Mr. Busch's name is at the very top of the short list of German musicians who refused to kowtow to Adolf Hitler. This latter aspect of his life is described in detail in Tully Potter's "Adolf Busch: The Life of a Honest Musician" (Toccata Press), the first full-length biography of the violinist ever to be published. It is at once a stirring tale and a disturbing one.
[SIGHTINGS] Hulton Archive/Getty Images
The violinist Adolf Busch, around 1920.
Most of us, I suspect, like to think of artists as a breed apart, a cadre of idealists whose souls have been ennobled by long exposure to beauty. The truth, however, is that they are every bit as human as the rest of us, and that a certain number of them are self-centered opportunists who are perfectly willing to ignore evil so long as the evildoers leave them in peace to do their work. That was pretty much what many German musicians did when the Nazis came to power in 1933. Within a matter of days, Hitler and his henchmen started putting into place a policy of systematic persecution of German Jews. Numerous well-known Jewish musicians, including Bruno Walter, Otto Klemperer and Emanuel Feuermann, either were forced out of their posts or quit in protest.
In April, mere weeks after Hitler seized the levers of power, the Busch Quartet decided to stop playing in Germany. Mr. Busch also canceled his remaining recitals with Mr. Serkin, issuing this statement: "Because of the impression made on me by the actions of my Christian compatriots against German Jews…I find it necessary to break off my concert tour in Germany." What makes this act so significant is that Mr. Busch was the only well-known non-Jewish German classical musician to emigrate from Germany solely as a matter of principle—and one of a bare handful of non-Jewish European musicians, including Arturo Toscanini and Pablo Casals, who resolved to stop performing there for the same reason.
Virtually all of the other big names in Austro-German music, including Wilhelm Furtwängler, Walter Gieseking, Herbert von Karajan, Carl Orff and Richard Strauss, stayed behind, some because they were active supporters of Hitler and others because they thought that the Nazis would dry up and blow away. Mr. Busch knew better. In a prophetic letter, he wrote, "Some of them believe that if they only 'play along,' the atrocities and injustice that are part and parcel of the movement will be tempered, can be turned around…they do not notice that they can only have a retarding effect, that the atrocities will still take place, only perhaps a bit later."
Mr. Busch's principled stand was motivated in part by the fact that many of his closest friends and colleagues were Jewish, including Mr. Serkin and Karl Doktor, the violist of the Busch Quartet. But the Nazis, who were keenly aware of the force of public opinion, were prepared to look the other way at such things in order to prevent prominent non-Jewish Germans from leaving the country in protest. As late as 1937, it was discreetly made known to Mr. Busch that if he returned, the Nazi government would let Mr. Serkin come back as well. "If you hang Hitler in the middle, with Goering on the left and Goebbels on the right, I'll return to Germany," he replied.
As anti-Semitic laws spread across the continent, Mr. Busch responded by canceling there as well, and at the end of 1939 he, Mr. Serkin and the members of the Busch Quartet moved to the U.S. What happened next was a tragedy. Though Mr. Serkin was quickly able to establish himself as a top-tier soloist, America in the 1940s had an oversupply of famous violinists and a limited appetite for chamber music. Mr. Busch was able to eke out a living, but his days of fame were over. Moreover, he despaired over what had become of his beloved native land. As Mr. Serkin recalled years later, "He was so German…and when that shame came, he felt responsible somehow. I think it would have been easier for him if he had been Jewish." He died a disappointed man.
Do you find Mr. Busch's story inspiring? If so, then ask yourself this: How much would you be willing to inconvenience yourself over a matter of moral principle? Would you sign a petition? Help a friend who was being persecuted? Pull the plug on your career? Or would you simply put your head down and hope that your fellow countrymen would come to their senses sooner or later? Adolf Busch paid an awesomely high price for his beliefs. Of course he did the right thing—but what would you do?
—Mr. Teachout, the Journal's drama critic, writes "Sightings" every other Friday. He is the author of "Pops: A Life of Louis Armstrong." Write to him at tteachout@wsj.com.
