He did not have a tragic life.
“Tragic lives stimulate the writing of journalists and critics, turning an artist into someone interesting and even important.” These words, written by Israeli illustrator Dani Kerman in a tribute to Walter Trier, express a sentiment widely held in the art and media world.
And yet, decades after his death, millions of children around the world continue to enjoy his illustrations, which are reprinted time and time again—evoking nostalgia in many adults who grew up with them.
But would we even know his name today if not for one fateful meeting in 1929? Probably not.
Walter Trier was born in elegant pre–World War I Prague to a well-educated Jewish family. They weren’t poor, but they weren’t part of the city’s Jewish elite either. His father was a skilled craftsman who did well enough to send his son—already a remarkably talented artist from a young age—to institutions that would nurture his gift. Trier first attended the Industrial School of Fine and Applied Arts in Prague, followed by the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich.
One of the Trier family’s close neighbors in Prague was Max Brod—who would later gain fame for his role in preserving Franz Kafka’s legacy. The children of the Brod and Trier families were close friends and even took vacations together until Walter left to study art in Germany.
Thanks to this connection, the National Library of Israel holds rare childhood photographs of Trier in the Max Brod Archive—playing ball and swimming in a lake.
In Munich, Trier excelled in his studies, and soon his caricatures and illustrations began appearing in various art and culture magazines. At age 20, his work caught the eye of a Berlin publisher, who offered him a permanent position as a cartoonist. The young Jewish artist moved to the German capital—a city that would later reject him and his people.
Shortly after arriving in Berlin, Trier met Helen Matthews, whom he married. A year later, they had a daughter, Margaret. This child would eventually pull them toward a distant land. But for now, Trier’s life remained steady for two decades. He had a stable job, a modest degree of artistic fame, and a steady stream of published caricatures and illustrations.
His works focused on topics that intrigued early 20th-century Berliners: everyday urban life, gentle satire of the upper classes, and a patriotic German spirit that intensified with the outbreak of World War I. Even then, his style stood out—defined by rounded lines that, at first glance, appeared simple but were deeply expressive and full of character.
But it was only in 1929 that Trier had the meeting that transformed him from a respected German illustrator into an artist whose drawings would become beloved worldwide—even in 21st-century Israel.
That year, a German journalist named Erich Kästner completed his first children’s book, Emil and the Detectives. The publishing house sought an illustrator.
They introduced the serious, somewhat cynical writer (he kept that side of himself out of his children’s books, but that’s another story) to an illustrator who, according to Kästner himself, spread a bit too much joy and cheer for the author’s liking.
Despite their stark differences in personality—and despite Kästner not always agreeing with Trier’s artistic interpretations of his characters—the first contract was signed, and Trier became the primary illustrator of most of Kästner’s children’s books until his own death.
Kästner’s books became instant bestsellers in Germany and worldwide—thanks primarily to their compelling characters, engaging plots, and direct, heartfelt approach to children. But Trier’s illustrations also played a key role. His charming and expressive artwork captured readers’ imaginations. His cover for Emil and the Detectives, featuring the iconic large yellow sidewalk, became one of the most recognizable book covers ever and was even immortalized on a German postage stamp.
Trier’s illustrations became inseparable from Kästner’s books, appearing in dozens of translations worldwide. The Emil Tischbein that children across the globe came to know was the Emil that Walter Trier had drawn for the very first German edition.
But despite their phenomenal success, their partnership was cut short.
The Nazis had come to power.
The Nazi regime had no love for Kästner, the liberal humanist, nor for Trier, the Jewish illustrator. Kästner was deemed “soft” and “too liberal,” while Trier’s political cartoons left no doubt about his views on the new regime.
Still, there was a crucial difference between them:
Kästner was German—through and through. His books were burned as early as 1933, but he remained in Germany throughout the war and after.
Trier, on the other hand, was Jewish. As such, he had no future in a country that was not even his homeland to begin with.
In 1933, when The Flying Classroom was published—shortly after the Nazis rose to power—Trier’s name was completely erased from the book’s credits and illustrations. Whether this was a marketing decision or a direct order from the Nazis, one thing was clear: Trier’s professional career in Germany was over.
In 1936, Trier took Helen and Margaret, left behind his professional reputation and all rights to his illustrations, and fled to London.
In Britain, Trier wasted no time in reestablishing himself. He offered his illustrations to various newspapers and magazines, covering a spectrum of themes—from entertainment and literature to politics.
During World War II, his work served as anti-fascist propaganda. His illustrations against the Nazi regime were even dropped as leaflets over Germany by the Royal Air Force.
At the same time, he became the regular cover illustrator for Lilliput, a magazine that initially focused on literature and entertainment but later became a men’s magazine.
Like his illustrations for Erich Kästner’s books, Trier’s magazine covers became iconic. He made sure to include, in each one, an illustration of a man and a woman with a small dog—his way of commemorating his relationship with Helen and their beloved pet.
After the war, Trier resumed his collaboration with Kästner in a remote-working arrangement that was ahead of its time, illustrating The Animals’ Conference, Lottie and Lisa, and more.
He also illustrated other books that achieved considerable success, including various editions of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. Additionally, he published his own illustrated game books.
A rare copy of a Hebrew edition of his game book titled 8192 Quite Crazy People in One Book, offers a delightful glimpse into Trier’s playful side—one that shines through most vividly in his independent works.
Yet, in the end, whether he embraced it or not, his illustrations for Kästner’s books are what cemented his legacy. His artistic imprint was so profound that when comic artist Isabel Kreitz published graphic novel adaptations of Kästner’s works, she made a point of declaring herself a devoted admirer of Trier, striving to ensure her illustrations remained “in the spirit” of his iconic style.
In 1947, the Trier family finally obtained British citizenship. Ironically, that same year, they decided to leave Britain and move closer to their daughter, Margaret, who had relocated to the distant Canada. Had time been on his side, Trier would no doubt have reinvented himself once again on the new continent, perhaps forging connections with Canadian or American writers. But he never got the chance. Less than four years after arriving in Canada, he died suddenly in his studio.
