BAYREUTH, GERMANY — Midway through the second act of the Bayreuth Festival’s new production of Rienzi, a miniature Richard Wagner takes command of the Festspielhaus. A child painted gold and wearing the composer’s familiar velvet cap and facial hair bursts onstage and presides over a manic pageant of the ten operas that have made up Bayreuth’s repertoire for the past 150 years. Minnesingers and Meistersingers collide; mythical and medieval heroes jostle for position; the medieval Wartburg castle of Tannhäuser turns into the boxy East German automobile that shared its name. The whole sequence, chaotic yet tightly choreographed, has a high-camp exuberance.

Over the past decades, Bayreuth has become surprisingly good at critiquing and even poking fun at itself. The Norwegian director Stefan Herheim’s landmark 2008 Parsifal turned Wagner’s mystical final opera into a galloping history of Germany and the festival that had grown up around it. Nine years later, Barrie Kosky, the first Jewish director to work on the Green Hill, set Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg partly inside Wagner’s own home and partly in the courtroom of the Nuremberg trials.

Founded by Wagner in 1876 as the ideal theater for his own works, Bayreuth is marking its 150th anniversary this summer with its very first staging of Rienzi. The festival had originally hoped to also perform its full repertoire of canonical Wagner works. Financial limitations forced it to abandon that plan.

Rienzi was Wagner’s third completed opera and his first great success when it premiered in Dresden in 1842, yet it belongs to the period of his career that Bayreuth has traditionally treated as the composer’s prehistory. The opera, a rarity nowadays, also feeds directly into several histories that the festival has spent decades learning how to discuss: Wagner’s enormous artistic debt to the German-Jewish composer Giacomo Meyerbeer; Wagner’s rabid antisemitism; Adolf Hitler’s fascination with Wagner; and the Wagner family’s own embrace of German nationalism and Nazism.

Rienzi, der letzte der Tribunen (Rienzi, the Last of the Tribunes) takes its story from an 1835 historical novel by the English writer Edward Bulwer-Lytton. Its hero, Cola di Rienzo, was a 14th-century Roman notary and man of letters who tried to break the power of the city’s feuding aristocratic families and establish a republican government. During Wagner’s lifetime, Rienzi remained his most popular opera.

This summer on the Green Hill, the sparkling and rousingly triumphant music of Rienzi itself kept pointing away from Bayreuth and toward Paris. Giacomo Meyerbeer, born Jakob Liebmann Meyer Beer into a wealthy Jewish family in Berlin in 1791, became the dominant composer of French grand opéra and one of the most internationally successful musicians of the 19th century. His Robert le diable and Les Huguenots showed what opera could achieve when intimate drama, huge public scenes, chorus, orchestra and stage technology were coordinated on an unprecedented scale. There is an old joke that Rienzi is Meyerbeer’s best opera. The young Wagner would not necessarily have taken that as an insult.

In 1837, the 24-year-old Wagner wrote to Meyerbeer that the older composer’s works had given his ideas about dramatic music a “new direction.” He praised Meyerbeer for mastering the strengths of the Italian and French schools and combining them into an art with international reach. “Goethe is dead — but he was no musician; there is nobody left but you,” Wagner wrote Meyerbeer in 1840. When the young composer arrived in Paris poor, obscure and desperately ambitious, Meyerbeer supported him, wrote recommendations on his behalf and praised music from Rienzi. In one letter, Wagner told Meyerbeer that he wept when he thought of “the man who is everything to me” and that working and striving “for you, and you alone” gave meaning to his efforts.

The musical indebtedness ran deeper than the patronage. Wagner later acknowledged that grand opéra, with its huge scenic and musical resources, had been his model for Rienzi. His ambition, he wrote, was “not simply to imitate it” but to surpass it through an extraordinary expenditure of means: five acts, five large finales, hymns, processions and what he called the “musical clash of arms.” Those techniques did not disappear when Wagner later repudiated grand opéra. He absorbed and transformed them in “mature” works like Tannhäuser, Lohengrin and Götterdämmerung, the final installment of the Ring cycle, which might be said to be the grand opéra par excellence.

That artistic debt increasingly tormented him. When Robert Schumann remarked in 1843 that Der fliegende Holländer “smacked of Meyerbeer,” Wagner responded with extraordinary defensiveness, insisting that the faintest Meyerbeerian odor would threaten his creative identity while conceding in the same letter that he remained personally indebted to the elder composer. After an attempt to staged Rienzi in Berlin in 1847 ran aground, Wagner’s resentment acquired a paranoid cast: he persuaded himself that the Jewish composer exercised secret control over the press and court circles that had disappointed him, despite the considerable evidence of Meyerbeer’s efforts to assist him.

The anxiety Wagner seemed to feel about Meyerbeer’s influence never fully disappeared. In 1872, eight years after Meyerbeer’s death, Wagner’s wife Cosima recorded a dream in which her husband was “walking arm in arm with Meyerbeer” and Meyerbeer had “smoothed for him the paths to fame.” She immediately connected it with another dream that repeatedly troubled Wagner: Money due to him had failed to arrive and he was unable to pay his rent.

Wagner’s antisemitism cannot be reduced to wounded professional vanity. It drew on larger currents of German nationalism and anti-Jewish thought and became, over the ensuing decades, one of the ugliest and most persistent elements in his worldview. Meyerbeer nevertheless became central to how Wagner articulated it. The cosmopolitan art Wagner had once admired could now be recoded as rootless; theatrical brilliance became superficiality; international success became commercial calculation. In the infamous 1850 essay “Das Judenthum in der Musik” (“Judaism in Music”), Wagner denied Jews the capacity for authentic artistic creation. In “Oper und Drama” (“Opera and Drama”), Meyerbeer became his supreme example of a composer who manufactured “effects without causes.”

The accusation is comically revealing when heard alongside Rienzi, one of the most unabashedly effect-hungry scores ever composed, especially in Bayreuth’s gargantuan performing version. This points to why Rienzi sits so uneasily inside the later Wagner myth: The prophet of a regenerated German art first made his name with a gigantic cosmopolitan entertainment modeled on a genre perfected in Paris by a Jewish composer.

Rienzi’s most consequential 20th-century admirer was Adolf Hitler. August Kubizek, a boyhood friend of Hitler’s, claimed in his memoir that Hitler emerged from a performance of Rienzi in 1905 in a state of near ecstasy and later told him, “In that hour it began,” retrospectively lending the performance in Linz a prophetic quality.  What had begun that evening was a political vocation modeled on the populist tribune who rose from obscurity by promising national renewal.

Early on, Hitler adopted Rienzi’s rousing overture for his political meetings in Munich; it later became a ritual element of the Nazi Party rallies at Nuremberg. For his 50th birthday in 1939, Hitler received Wagner’s autographed manuscript of Rienzi. Now lost, it was presumably in the Führerbunker when Hitler committed suicide to escape capture from the advancing Soviet troops.

I don’t think one need describe any of this as an “abuse” of Wagner. Music does not arrive with instructions for use. The Nazi embrace of Rienzi belongs to the opera’s reception history just as Meyerbeer belongs to its compositional history. Hitler recognized something in Rienzi’s transformation of political aspiration into mass spectacle that answered to his own imagination. That does not make Wagner responsible for Hitler; nor does it require us to pretend that the attraction was based on a misunderstanding.

The connection between the Führer and the Wagner Festival, however, is a different story altogether. After Wagner’s death in 1883, his widow Cosima helped turn the festival into a center of völkisch nationalism and antisemitism. Winifred Wagner, the composer’s English-born daughter-in-law, directed the festival from 1930 to 1944 and became one of Hitler’s closest friends. The relationship between Nazism and Bayreuth was not a hostile takeover of an innocent artistic institution. As I wrote in these pages in 2013, Bayreuth supported Hitler before Hitler supported Bayreuth.

After World War II, the festival answered this inheritance principally through aesthetics. When Wieland and Wolfgang Wagner — the composer’s grandsons — reopened Bayreuth in 1951, Wieland’s stripped-down, abstract productions decisively broke with the representational style associated with the Nazi period. But the brothers also asked visitors to refrain from political discussion on the Festival Hill: “Here, art is what counts.”

The morning of this year’s Rienzi premiere, the German-Jewish public intellectual Michel Friedman stood inside the Festspielhaus and quoted that appeal in a speech devoted to Wagner’s antisemitism and Bayreuth’s history.

Before Friedman spoke, the Russian-Jewish maestro Semyon Bychkov conducted Wagner’s “Siegfried Idyll” alongside chamber music by Gustav Mahler and Pavel Haas, the Czech Jewish composer murdered at Auschwitz. The festival has also made the open-air Silenced Voices memorial to Jewish artists excluded and persecuted at Bayreuth a permanent feature of the Green Hill. (First unveiled in 2012, it could definitely use a facelift.)

Bayreuth has approached this outlier with the characteristic fussiness of an institution that considers itself the standard bearer of Wagner. There is no definitive Rienzi and so the festival has assembled its own new performing version from the earliest available materials and later revisions. The result contains roughly four hours of music inside an evening that runs six hours with its two long intervals. Rienzi resembles its successors in sheer length, if in nothing else.

The last time I saw a live Rienzi was 16 years ago at the Deutsche Oper Berlin. Back then, the director Philipp Stölzl compressed the opera to about three hours and presented Rienzi’s rise and fall as an explicit Hitler-Mussolini parable. As a commentary on the work’s reception history, it was anything but subtle.

Bayreuth’s production, directed by Alexandra Szemerédy and Magdolna Parditka, is less literal but also less involving. Their Rome is a gray contemporary or near-future political landscape dominated by election campaigns, polling, smartphones and screens. The production had a strong visual grammar and some remarkably assured tableaux (including the riotous act two ballet), but it didn’t seem particularly interested in telling a story.

Virtually nobody at Bayreuth or anywhere else can be expected to know the intricacies of this plot in advance, which made the festival’s refusal to provide surtitles unusually exasperating. With Tristan und Isolde or Parsifal, performed before an audience that often knows the texts intimately, dispensing with projected translations can enhance concentration. But Rienzi is an obscure opera being performed in an unfamiliar version, and the staging itself rarely clarified the action. Eventually I stopped worrying about it. Another chorus arrived, another political faction reversed itself, another steely declaration climbed toward a climax. Rienzi is prodigiously good at generating excitement and considerably less good at persuading you that one excitement necessarily leads to the next.

In interviews, Nathalie Stutzmann, the French conductor helming the production, has stressed Rienzi’s affinities with Bellini and the Italian bel canto tradition. The Festival Orchestra sounded phenomenal: brilliant without becoming merely blaring and surprisingly lyrical beneath all the military and ceremonial pomp.

The Festival Chorus, which bears much of the opera’s weight, produced one immense wave of sound after another. The Austrian heldentenor Andreas Schager sounded as though he were born to sing Rienzi, which is an insane thing to say about anyone. His seemingly inexhaustible voice and effortless buoyancy suited the character’s mixture of exhortation, certitude and growing desperation.

Their audience responded with the decorum of a mausoleum. This audience can sit through a climax that would bring almost any Italian or French opera house to its feet with the stillness of a congregation awaiting further instructions. (Whenever I tentatively tried to applaud an aria in the silence that followed a full cadence, I was immediately shushed.)

No one needs Rienzi to become a permanent Bayreuth fixture. 150 years since the first Bayreuth Festival, it’s enough that it has punched a hole in the repertory. The Salzburg Easter Festival, which is currently building a new Ring with Kirill Petrenko and the Berlin Philharmonic, plans to interrupt Wagner in 2028 with Arnold Schoenberg’s Moses und Aron. Bayreuth might profit from similar encounters: With Meyerbeer and the other composers who fed Wagner’s imagination, or perhaps with composers whose music later found itself excluded from the German tradition in the name of ideas that flourished on the Green Hill. The sepulchral Festspielhaus could stand a little “luft von anderem Planeten” (“air from other planets”), to quote a Stefan George poem that Schoenberg set to music.

Listening to Rienzi at Bayreuth makes audible something the Wagner cult spent generations trying not to hear. Beneath the composer who would announce a new German art stands the cosmopolitan operatic world he learned from; behind the antisemite who made Meyerbeer a symbol of artistic falseness stands the desperate young composer who begged for Meyerbeer’s help and absorbed his example. 150 years after Bayreuth opened, their new Rienzi reminds us that Meyerbeer was inside Wagner’s music all along.

The post Hitler’s favorite composer Richard Wagner found early inspiration in a Jewish artist’s music appeared first on The Forward.

Behind an orange roll-up door at a self-storage facility in New Orleans, sits a vacuum cleaner, some lighting gear and a cardboard box.

Inside the box is a Confederate monument, one of the strangest Jewish heirlooms in America.

It is granite, four and a half feet tall, 1,600 pounds and shaped like a thick tombstone. It lies on its side on a crushed wooden pallet because it can no longer stand up. A third of it once sat underground, and when Charlotte, North Carolina, chipped it out of a sidewalk in the summer of 2020, the buried end came out ragged. It carries a few gouges where a protester swung a hammer. Until the city scrubbed it, it also carried three letters in black spray paint: BLM.

“There it sits to this day,” said Kenneth Hoffman, executive director of the Museum of the Southern Jewish Experience, half a mile away in New Orleans, “and possibly will sit forever.”

The stone is one of the last left standing — or, more precisely, lying down — from a century-long campaign in which American Jews built monuments across the South to Judah P. Benjamin, the Confederacy’s Jewish secretary of state, because, for a time, he represented their own acceptance in the South. The monument’s fall tells the story of what changed — not just about Benjamin, but about the Jews who once celebrated him.

Its journey from a Charlotte sidewalk to a New Orleans storage unit involves a Yiddish-speaking ex-convict, the United Daughters of the Confederacy, an antisemitic banker, two Polish-born rabbis, a dollar bill pulled from a stranger’s wallet, and a retired lawyer whose wife descends from the man who once hid Benjamin from the Union Army.

What nobody has figured out is what to do with it.

The brains of the Confederacy

Benjamin was a New Orleans lawyer, a sugar planter who owned 140 enslaved people, and a U.S. senator from Louisiana. When the South seceded, Confederate President Jefferson Davis made Benjamin attorney general, then secretary of war, then secretary of state. The two men worked side by side as much as 10 hours a day. Benjamin’s face was engraved on the Confederate $2 bill, likely the only paper money issued in America to feature a Jewish person.

He was known as “the brains of the Confederacy” — a phrase that started as an insult, the old canard of the Jewish puppet master, a way of pinning the Civil War’s loss on the one Jew in the cabinet. He married a Catholic woman, never joined a synagogue and was not a practicing Jew, but none of that mattered. A senator from Ohio sneered that Benjamin was an “Israelite with Egyptian principles.”

When the Confederacy collapsed, Benjamin ran. He disguised himself as a Frenchman who spoke no English, hid in a Florida swamp and slipped out to sea. He made it to London, reinvented himself as a barrister, and died wealthy and free in Paris in 1884, never having answered for any of his past.

That flight is why there are so few monuments to him. Davis went to prison. The generals surrendered and lived out their lives in the South. Benjamin escaped and never came back.

“Some considered Judah Benjamin a kind of traitor,” said Jonathan Sarna, the noted Brandeis University historian of American Jewry.

So the Lost Cause never fully claimed him. Southern Jews claimed him instead.

‘Judah P. Benjamin Nite’

The commemoration campaign that followed has been reconstructed largely by David Weinfeld, an assistant professor at Rowan University who is working on a book called Southern Jews and the Lost Cause. It was indifferent to geography.

Jewish war veterans presented a Benjamin portrait to Atlanta Mayor William Hartsfield in 1954 for the city’s collection of “Confederate Heroes and Statesmen.” Weinfeld found that Alabama’s B’nai B’rith opened its 1962 state convention with a dinner-dance called “Judah P. Benjamin Nite,” and offered to fund a monument at the state capitol honoring him as “a son of the Jewish people.”

Alabama didn’t have a strong connection to Benjamin, which was precisely the appeal there. He “provided a means for southern Jews to prove their southernness regardless of what former Confederate state they resided in,” writes Weinfeld.

Sarna puts the calculation more starkly. Jewish safety in the South depended on being counted as white, and Southern Jews understood the alternative.

“Why did they want to be white?” he asked. “Because the alternative was to be Black.”

The stakes weren’t abstract. In the years around those celebrations, synagogues across the South were bombed and set on fire, and rabbis who backed integration were punished for it. “There were people whose response was, ‘If we want to continue to be here in the South, this is the price we have to pay,’” Sarna said.

It was a bargain, mostly unspoken: stay loyal to the white South and you will be well treated. Many Southern Jews upheld their end of it. Plenty, Sarna said, “had prejudices not different from those of their non-Jewish counterparts.”

The United Daughters of the Confederacy embraced Benjamin right back. “They understood that celebrating a Jew made the Confederacy look tolerant,” Weinfeld told a room of scholars at the American Jewish Historical Society’s conference this June in Cleveland.

The Daughters chartered a Judah P. Benjamin chapter in Bradenton, Florida, in 1914, and after World War I began sponsoring Benjamin markers across the South.

In 1924, the Daughters bought Belle Chasse, Benjamin’s old Louisiana plantation, and a New Orleans rabbi spoke at the dedication, consecrating the house to “the impulse of patriotism.” The next year they bought the Gamble Plantation in Ellenton, Florida, where Benjamin is said to have hidden from Union troops, and gave it to the state. It remains a state park officially named the Judah P. Benjamin Confederate Memorial. With B’nai B’rith’s support, the UDC raised a monument in Sarasota in 1942 — pink Georgia marble, crowned with a bronze sundial — and another in Fayetteville in 1944.

The Sarasota dedication came six weeks after Pearl Harbor, and the Birmingham News found in it a wartime moral. Honoring Benjamin was fitting “especially so right now, when the United States is at war with totalitarian forces whose ringleader, Nazi Germany, proclaims and practices racial and religious intolerance,” the paper wrote. The monument was “in a way a part of the answer of the South, the land of the Confederacy, to Adolf Hitler’s assault upon those freedoms which Southerners and all Americans hold dear.”

It was a memorial to a slaveholding Confederate, offered as the South’s rebuttal to Hitler.

The Charlotte fiasco

In Charlotte, the arrangement broke down in public.

According to Weinfeld’s extensive research, the local UDC chapter was preparing to host the 1948 state convention and wanted a marker for the spot where Benjamin sheltered for a week in April 1865, in the home of a Jewish merchant named Abraham Weill. The chapter’s historian, Josephine Yarbrough, needed money. She wrote to Harry Golden.

Weinfeld has traced what happened next through Golden’s own account and contemporaneous records.

Golden was about the least Confederate man in North Carolina. Born in what is now Ukraine, raised on the Lower East Side, he had served federal prison time for mail fraud before reinventing himself in Charlotte as publisher of the one-man newspaper the Carolina Israelite.

Golden would go on to become a best-selling humorist and an ally of Martin Luther King Jr. during the civil rights movement. But in 1948, he called Benjamin “one of the greatest Jews America has ever produced.” He signed up the city’s two synagogues, Temple Israel and Temple Beth El, which agreed to buy the granite and present it to the Daughters as a gift.

Then came the letter.

A non-Jewish New York banker with Charlotte in-laws warned UDC members across the state that the Daughters were being used for Jewish propaganda. Charlotte’s so-called good Jews, he wrote, were “good only because they are as yet unrevealed.”

That was all it took. The local Daughters voted to yank their name off the stone, then went to the city council to stop the marker from being erected. They argued it would block passengers boarding city buses. The state and national organizations overruled them, and both synagogues voted to press on.

On Oct. 1, 1948, police blocked off South Tryon Street for the unveiling. The mayor came. A Presbyterian minister delivered the keynote. And the Jewish blessings came from two rabbis — Aaron Tofield of Temple Israel and Philip Frankel of Temple Beth El — both born in Poland. Three years after the Holocaust ended, two immigrant rabbis from the old country stood on a Southern sidewalk and consecrated a monument to the Confederacy.

Hidden in plain sight

The stone did what stones do. It stood there.

Charlotte changed around it — the streetcars, then the skyscrapers, then the FedEx store it eventually fronted. The inscription was right there for anyone who bothered to crouch down and read it. You could ship a package, grab a coffee and walk right past a monument to the Confederate secretary of state.

Charlotte’s Jewish community never forgot, exactly. During her years in Beth El’s pulpit, which ran from 1998 to 2016, Rabbi Judith Schindler used the marker to teach the congregation’s teenagers about Jews in the Confederacy.

In August 2017, white supremacists marched in Charlottesville, Virginia, to protest the planned removal of a statue of Confederate General Robert E. Lee, and a counterprotester was killed. Soon after, Beth El’s board voted unanimously to push Charlotte to move the marker somewhere else — or find some other use for it. The answer was the same every time: North Carolina law barred removing Confederate monuments unless they were relocated somewhere equally prominent.

Then, in June 2020, artists painted a “Black Lives Matter” street mural along South Tryon, directly in front of the stone. The monument looked out over the M in “Matter.”

Days later, somebody spray-painted “BLM” across most of the granite and went at it with a hammer. The granite mostly won. “They probably whacked at it several times,” Hoffman said, “and it really only took out a few chips.”

On June 17 of that year, Temple Israel and Temple Beth El — the same two congregations that had paid for the stone in 1948 — wrote to Charlotte’s mayor, city council and city manager. This time, they demanded the monument be removed.

“We should neither celebrate the Confederacy nor honor the legacy of white supremacy,” they wrote. “The monument does not belong in a place of prominence within our city, just like German cities do not memorialize or erect statues to Nazis.”

A week later, Schindler and Mike Wirth, an artist in her congregation, placed a vinyl wraparound banner over the monument. On it was a quote from Emma Lazarus: “Until we are all free, we are none of us free.”

City workers then pried the monument out of the sidewalk, “sort of to the relief of everyone,” Hoffman said. The city scrubbed off the spray paint, declared the marker damaged and put it in municipal storage.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Mike Wirth משה בן עָתִיד (@mikewirth)

Then, hundreds of miles away and north of the Mason-Dixon line, a retired lawyer read a book.

The dollar

Barrett Freedlander was reading a biography of Judah Benjamin when he hit a half-page passage about a monument in Charlotte. He was shocked. He was also, he realized, related to the story.

Freedlander, 84, is a retired Baltimore attorney. His wife, Laura, is the great-great-granddaughter of Abraham Weill — the merchant who sheltered Benjamin, and whose name is misspelled “Abram Weil” on the stone.

“The only reason I cared about it,” he said, “is because of the family connection.”

That connection runs deeper than Benjamin. Richmond was days from falling. Confederate President Davis, worried about the “disorganized bands of troops roving about the country,” put his wife and their four children on a southbound train — and handed her a pistol and “showed me how to load, aim and fire it,” Varina Davis wrote.

When they arrived in Charlotte, the rented house was packed up and nobody in town would help a family everyone assumed would be arrested.

Except one man.

“The agent, Mr. A. Weill, an Israelite, came to meet us there and gave us every assistance in his power,” Varina wrote in her memoir, “and when he found there were no conveniences for cooking, he sent our meals from his own house for several days, refusing, with many cordial words, any offer to reimburse him.”

Freedlander thinks he knows why the Confederate first lady reached for the word “Israelite,” and why a Jewish merchant was the only person in Charlotte willing to take in a family the rest of the city was shunning. “Only the persecuted would appreciate her issues,” he said.

The Weills prospered. Weill helped found the synagogue in Wilmington, North Carolina, where relatives still belong. His granddaughter Laura married Julius Cone, a Greensboro textile tycoon. The family fortune allowed sisters Claribel and Etta Cone to buy the Matisses and Picassos that are the crown of the Baltimore Museum of Art.

So when Freedlander learned the marker had disappeared into municipal storage, he started making calls. A staffer in the mayor’s office said the city had no use for it and was willing to let it go. But the manager of the warehouse where it sat called Freedlander back with a complication: the city couldn’t simply hand over public property. He was obligated to charge for it.

“How much?” Freedlander asked. One dollar. Freedlander offered to send a check. The man said not to bother and paid it himself, out of his own wallet.

Freedlander’s original idea was to put the monument in his own backyard. “My wife didn’t want it,” he said.

A friend mentioned the new Museum of the Southern Jewish Experience in New Orleans. Another friend of Freedlander’s, a Baltimore executive whose company hauls computer equipment around the country, priced out the job, got into four figures, then called back and said he’d do it for free. It was history, he said.

Monument vs. museum

The stone arrived in New Orleans via truck in November 2022. It was lowered onto the pavement outside the Museum of the Southern Jewish Experience’s offsite storage with a jack lift, and has not moved since.

Hoffman’s first instinct had been to display it. The stone, he realized, tells three tales at once: the Civil War, when Benjamin rose to the Confederate cabinet; 1948, when the two Charlotte synagogues paid for a monument to him; and 2020, when it was defaced during the summer of Black Lives Matter protests.

Last October, when the Southern Jewish Historical Society held its conference in New Orleans, Hoffman and Weinfeld convened a roundtable of historians to figure out what to do with the monument. One idea floated that seemed to gain consensus was to display the marker alongside a light projection restoring the graffiti.

For now, the monument remains in storage. Hoffman said that if and when it goes up, it will be “with its full context. Not like it’s a historical marker.”

Samantha Baskind, an art historian at Cleveland State University, thinks the museum should not wait to display it.

“Yes, originally the statue commemorates Benjamin as a distinguished Jewish American and Confederate statesman,” she said. “But the fact that it was defaced during Black Lives Matter protests makes it acquire a second history. The graffiti isn’t merely vandalism in a conventional sense. It documents a moment when Americans were publicly reevaluating Confederate symbols.”

Which means the object now holds a double meaning: why Benjamin was honored in the 20th century, and why so many people rejected that honor in the 21st.

Baskind knows firsthand the cost of institutional flinching. In 2022, she curated an exhibition of 19th-century Jewish American artists for a gallery at Princeton, including work by Moses Jacob Ezekiel, a Jewish sculptor who spent part of his career producing Confederate monuments. Baskind, who wrote a book about Ezekiel, had written labels confronting Ezekiel’s Lost Cause loyalties head-on. Late in the process, the venue that was planning on showing the exhibition canceled it.

“It was almost devaluing what your students are capable of thinking about,” Baskind said. “And isn’t that what we do in an educational environment?”

Her verdict on the Charlotte stone is unambiguous. The city should never have cleaned it. “I wouldn’t see it as damage. It’s part of the object’s history.” The graffiti “deserves interpretation and not concealment.”

And the question a museum ought to ask, she said, isn’t whether Benjamin was good or bad. “The more interesting question is: Why did different generations understand him so differently?”

Early in the 20th century, American Jews saw a success story. Today most see a man who helped run a slaveholding rebellion that waged war on other states. “Neither perspective should replace the other,” Baskind said. “A museum explains how and when those shifts occurred.”

Then she offered the distinction she believes the argument comes down to. “A monument exists to honor,” she said. “A museum or gallery exists to explain.”

Visitors to the Museum of the Southern Jewish Experience can still find Judah Benjamin there. He’s in a display case in an exhibit about Jews, slavery and the Civil War: two Confederate $2 bills bearing his portrait, one from 1862, one from 1864. Both are blank on the back.

“Which tells you something about the financial solvency of the Confederacy,” Hoffman said. “Save money. Just print it on one side.”

Half a mile away, one of the last monuments American Jews built to the highest-ranking Jew in the Confederacy, and to the standing he seemed to promise them, lies in a cardboard box in the dark, its graffiti scrubbed, its chips intact, waiting for somebody to decide what it means.

Freedlander hopes to take a trip to Wilmington later this month with some of his grandchildren to visit family graves — including that of Abraham Weill, the man who helped a fleeing family when nobody else in town would, and got a monument he never asked for.

“I’m a bystander to all this,” Freedlander said. “I’m just the messenger. But I did want to preserve it.”

The post How a monument to a Jewish Confederate ended up in a storage unit, next to a vacuum cleaner appeared first on The Forward.

(JTA) —

For the second time this year, Iran has named a wanted suspect in the 1994 bombing of the AMIA Jewish community center in Buenos Aires to a top security role.

A spokesman for the Islamic Republic’s president, Masoud Pezeshkian, said Monday that Mohsen Rezaei had resigned as an adviser to the supreme leader, Ayatollah Mojtaba Khamenei, and would assume the role of secretary of Iran’s powerful Supreme National Security Council. Rezaei is a former commander of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps.

Rezaei is wanted by Argentina and is subject to an Interpol Red Notice issued at Argentina’s request over his alleged role in the 1994 attack, which killed 85 people and remains the deadliest terrorist attack in Argentina’s history.

Earlier this year, Ahmad Vahidi, another suspect in the AMIA case and also the subject of an Interpol Red Notice, was appointed IRGC commander.

In a landmark ruling in 2024, an Argentine court held Iran and its proxy in Lebanon, Hezbollah, responsible for the bombing, setting the stage for international legal action.

In June 2025, Argentina’s federal judiciary ordered that 10 Iranian and Lebanese suspects accused in connection with the deadly 1994 AMIA bombing be tried in absentia. Rezaei and Vahidi are among them.

The eight other suspects accused by the late AMIA special prosecutor, Alberto Nisman, are: former Iranian Intelligence Minister Ali Fallahijan, former Iranian foreign minister Ali Akbar Velayati, former Iranian ambassador Hadi Soleimanpour, former Iranian cultural attache in Buenos Aires Mohsen Rabbani and former Iranian diplomat Ahmad Reza Asghari, as well as suspected Hezbollah operatives Salman Raouf Salman, Abdallah Salman and Hussein Mounir Mouzannar.

The post Iran appoints AMIA bombing suspect to National Security Council appeared first on The Forward.