By Jan Jaben-Elion, first published in the Leica Historical Society of the Uk magazine. 

 

Kurt Rosenberg, and other German Jews saved by the Wetzlar-based Leitz company, walked a delicate balancing act in the United States. To some, they were Germans, working for a Germany company in a country that went to war against Germany in 1941. He worked, and owed his life to, a Germany company that was supplying equipment to the Luftwaffe, run by a government that was threatening his family’s life in Germany. He loved his work, and excelled at it, but also felt torn, worrying about his family back home.

In his letters, dating from his arrival in America in 1938 to the time he went overseas with the US Army and was subsequently killed in 1944, we see his concerns for his family and his efforts to get them out of Germany. Yet, we also see a maturing young man who took his work and his love for photography extremely serious. In this second of a series of articles about Rosenberg (the first was published in LHS No. 62, June 2001), we will see a snapshot of what it was like to work for Leitz in America in those early war years from someone who loved his work.

Indeed, not long after his February 1938 arrival in America, he wrote home about the Leica he was building for himself, and his disappointment about how he wasn’t being appreciated by the company. One of his colleagues traveled to a customer for four days to repair a metal microscope. Apparently the lens was foggy (beschlagen) and the machine had to be adjusted. “Why didn’t they send me since this is exactly what I just learned in Wetzlar?” He complained that some of the people in the front showroom had as much knowledge of a Leica as a cow has knowledge about a kreplach (crepe)!

He also wrote about his working in his darkroom from 8 a.m. to 9 p.m. one Sunday, and complained about the heat. “One has to be extremely careful about the temperature of the developer and the fixer. It should have consistent temperature of 18 degrees Centigrade, which is only possible with consistent refilling of ice. In the shop, three of the films melted.”

Six months later, in the dead of a New York winter, Rosenberg wrote about one of his more fun experiences. Julius Huisgen, a photographer commissioned by Wetzlar, came to New York to take color photos of Broadway for a book. “Jule asked me to go with him because four eyes are better and my mouth speaks better (English). We were at Times Square, always looking for a good photo, when I suddenly had an idea: We hired a taxi and took photos from the roof of the taxi. That was the best viewpoint. From there we shot everything again. In all, we took 54 pictures. And the expense I had was reimbursed by the company.”

One day, Rosenberg’s boss, Mr. Schenk, called him into his tiny cubicle office and told him that someone had complained that he had been absent from work for a few hours the previous November, when he was obtaining affidavits to bring his family from Germany, and the time had not been deducted from his pay. “It hurts me, not the few dollars that will be deducted from my next week’s salary, but the last sentence in this meeting was important: ‘I hope I can reimburse those hours.’ This was the first time Mr. Schenk spoke to me for many months. He’s forever going around me and watches how I work. He goes through my drawers after I leave work. This, he told me. So I don’t know where I stand with him.”

One of the biggest news stories involving Leitz during those times – about a theft of thousands of dollars worth of cameras - also was noted by Rosenberg to his family. In May 1939, he wrote to his father that the investigation had not advanced much, but that “a few more people were arrested and one of them from a transport service who had four cameras in his home.” Meanwhile, Rosenberg had transferred to the San Francisco office where he worked for Spindler. One day, Spindler informed him that his former boss Schenk, had been responsible for the theft of $30,000 worth of cameras and lenses. Rosenberg was shocked. “Fourteen years in the company, with a weekly income of $100. Formerly a German officer, a man of 60 years with a little girl of 10 years. He took the cameras home and his wife sold them. Both are now sitting (in the infamous NY prison) Sing Sing. He must have been a first-grade actor when I think about how upset he got when the first three suspects were taken, and how long it took the authorities to catch up with him. Probably one of those who was arrested did not keep his mouth shut. I can’t grasp this.”

Between the theft in the New York office and the recent accidental death of renowned photographer Anton F. Baumann, Rosenberg was very happy to be in the San Francisco office. “I can think of no better employer than Spindler. He kept his promise and is leaving me totally alone to do my experiments.”

During the next two years, while life was deteriorating for his family in Germany, Rosenberg’s creative life with Leitz was flourishing. In March 1940, he wrote about the new simplified Selectroslide and the projector, for which he had an idea: Just like other instruments, theirs were painted in matt-black. A double vent evacuated the heat that is produced by a 300-500 Watt bulb. Still, there was a lot of heat. He suggested to Spindler that they could “get a lower heating and higher light intensity through a silver coating inside. We are sending 20 out to be lacquered and I am very tense. Why don’t other companies do this; maybe it’s wrong? But it makes so much sense to me that a silver coating keeps the heat away and reflects the light, and conversely, a black plane absorbs the light and collects the heat without letting it go.”

Not much later, he reported that his idea turned out to be good and that “the prototype is ready and we can begin producing. It is unbelievable that after two hours, our projector is only as warm as the one from the factory after 10 minutes! It is also lighter, brighter and cheaper! Spindler invented another little thing with which to hold negatives stronger; nothing special, but we make money with it!”

Still, not everything was rosy. Rosenberg wrote that although the new Electroslide was ready, Spindler couldn’t proceed because “we are not allowed to compete against New York.”

But just weeks later, in May 1940, Rosenberg wrote: “The awaited success with the Electroslide Junior has arrived. We have hundreds of orders, but they can only be delivered in four to five months. First of all, the molds for all the necessary parts must be made. This is keeping us back. We have expanded, received new machines, hired 10 people and are still busy. Spindler half apologized that he cannot give us a raise, but as soon as the first instruments are delivered, he will make it up to us. He really now has only expenses and no income. New York’s business is exploding. Almost everything is produced there and they hired 30 additional technicians. Almost daily there are telephone communications with Europe. The prices remained the same, but the profit is naturally much greater because there are no customs to pay and everything goes into their own pocket.”

1941 was a big year in Rosenberg’s life. His father was deported to a concentration camp in Germany. Rosenberg enlisted in the U.S. Army, and he invented something else for photographers. In a letter he wrote to a friend, asking for advice, it is apparent that Rosenberg is now more at home in America. His letter, written in German as usual, is interspersed with English words (here, italicized). He writes, “I have the following idea: A simple box with a short handle and a [Randelschraube] attached to the enlarger’s column. I am enclosing a little sketch for you to be able to visualize it. The whole thing is not supposed to be an invention, but on the other hand, I think that it is very practical. When the amateur works in his darkroom, he wants to have all his instruments handy. Additional lenses, filters, softening lenses, enlarging glass, light meter, etc., etc. When one begins to work, everything is nicely displayed on the table and when one is done, everything is nicely stashed under the table. You see in a darkroom where it is almost completely dark, instruments can never be too accessible. And the little light that is available is most intensive near the enlarger itself.

“Have you understood me so far? The only accessory that comes close to my idea is a drawer that fits under the enlarger’s board. This tool is delivered from the plant just like this and cannot be used with any other enlarger. Then there is another idea. The enlarger’s board here is hollow and has room to stash a few things. But there is nothing that can be used with every enlarger. My ‘tablet’ can remain permanently hinged to the enlarger’s upright, i.e., one has all the necessary things together with the enlarger. Another advantage, the production cost need not be higher than one cent. Each column can accommodate three to four of these holders and thus save a lot of space.

“I am coming to the point (of the letter). I approached the Snow Company in Washington and presented my idea to them. I paid $5 and had them make a search. The result is that there are already four patents that are similar to my idea. I find the letter from Snow very respectful, and it shows that they have not taken me for a ride. (Sorry – what German!) But I cannot grasp that these advanced patents come so close to my thought. I am asking for your professional advice and decision. I am not absolutely eager to get a patent, and not at all if later I might have to face claims by another inventor. Should I try to get a design patent? I enclose my correspondence with Snow. Does he have a good reputation for a patent lawyer?”

Later that year, Rosenberg wrote to his family about how Spindler contacted the US Army to get a deferred classification for him. In this communication to the Army, Spindler noted that the company is the only one of its kind on the West Coast that provides its special services to both private industry and the US government. The letter points out the “current shortage of new scientific instruments and equipment” and the need to keep its “repair department” operating. “Therefore, we require the constant service of Kurt Rosenberg which is unique in that he was trained in the (headquarters) factory and whom we brought over to the West Coast several years ago and at our own cost. Even in normal times it is practically impossible to find such unique technicians in the open labor market.”

Finally, this German-born photographer with an American inventive spirit was inducted into the US Army in April 1943, months before receiving his American certificate of naturalization that October. Thus, still a German citizen when he was first inducted into the army, he was bound by a night curfew imposed on Germans. He was then killed in action in April 1944 aboard the U.S. troopship ‘Liberty Paul Hamilton’, when it was torpedoed in the Mediterranean Sea by German aircraft. Only his letters, full of his creative ideas and spirit, and his many photographs are left behind.