The Woman Who Heard Color (10 page)

 

After Christmas, Hanna was more than eager to return to Munich. While her gifts had been well received, particularly by the little ones, her offerings were overshadowed by her older sister’s announcement on Christmas Eve. Her stepmother avoided her, and the harsh words she expected from her father were never spoken. His lack of attention was almost more hurtful than if he had taken a stick and beaten her.

Hanna took an early-morning train back to Munich by herself, leaving Käthe and Hans wrapped tightly and securely in their love and enthusiasm for the new life they were about to start together. Their stepmother was surprisingly excited about the prospect of planning the wedding and sewing a lovely dress for Käthe. Hanna’s curiosity about Herr Fleischmann’s plans for her had occupied a good deal of her time while away, and a nervous energy, mingled with anticipation, had kept her awake through most of her last night at the farm.

She had left the drawing in Munich, tucked safely in a box under her bed. She didn’t dare take it home with her, as there was little privacy. What would she have done or said if her father—or, worse yet, her stepmother—had discovered it? She had studied it carefully the evening Herr Fleischmann had given it to her, trying to guess which one of the students had drawn it, placing them in her mind at the studio, guessing from the angle of the drawing that it had to be Herr Kandinsky or perhaps Herr Jawlensky, though it was not signed. She wondered if Herr Fleischmann had chosen it at random, or if he had picked this artist above the others because there was something special in the work. How did one know which artist was best? Hanna wondered if this was a talent that came naturally—the ability to see the potential in a particular artist, even as a student, the skill to judge the value of a painting or drawing. Or could this be learned? Could she possibly ask Herr Fleischmann? No, surely not.

As the train pulled into the station, the familiar sounds and colors of Munich welcomed her, and Hanna’s thoughts turned to Frau Fleischmann, who had also been much on her mind. She was eager to see her again. At times she worried that her mistress could not survive without her, that she was essential to the woman’s well-being, that no one understood her as Hanna did.

She dropped her bag in the servants’ quarters in the basement and climbed the steps to find Frau Fleischmann just finishing breakfast in her bedroom.

“Oh, Hanna, I’ve truly missed you,” she said as Hanna entered. “Thank you for the gift. It is lovely and so very thoughtful of you. Now, come here, my darling. Why, I think you’ve grown even more beautiful during your visit home.” She reached up and touched her face. “The fresh air of the country is good for you.” Hanna had spent little time outdoors, as it had been very cold. It had snowed most of the time she’d been gone, but the way Frau Fleischmann carried on, one might think it had been June or July and she’d come back with sun-kissed skin and a new batch of freckles scattered across her nose.

“Sit,” Frau Fleischmann said, patting the empty chair at the table by the window where she sat. She looked well, which both pleased Hanna and made her wonder how important she really was to her mistress. “Herr Fleischmann has spoken to you?”

Hanna had yet to see Herr Fleischmann as he had left for the gallery. She realized Frau Fleischmann must be talking about the conversation they’d had before she left for the farm. Surely he hadn’t spoken to her of Hanna’s extra activities in the afternoons when her mistress napped. She felt herself grow warm with the thought that she might have seen the drawing.

“Paris!” Frau Fleischmann squealed with delight. “We’re going to Paris.”

Hanna smiled, relieved that she was talking about Paris, excited once more at the thought. She felt sure that Frau Fleischmann knew nothing of the drawing or her business at the Academy of Fine Arts. “I appreciate this,” she said softly.

“Oh, I couldn’t do it without you, Hanna. You’ve truly been a blessing for me. A short while ago, the trip would have been nothing, but now, ah, my strength is not what it once was. But, you, Hanna, you are the angel sent to look after me. Frau Hirsch was a dear to me, but very frail and hardly had the strength to keep up with me herself toward the end. But you, Hanna . . .” Frau Fleischmann laughed, and her words and the slight sarcastic ring of the laugh stung Hanna. Surely she meant this as a compliment, but at the same time, Hanna wondered if she was thinking—what a big, healthy farm girl you are, so capable of helping me down the stairs; why, I think you could carry me if need be.

Later that morning Frau Fleischmann asked that Hanna help her down to the music room. Though she looked refreshed, she walked with an uneven step and needed assistance going down the stairs. Hanna thought of her comment again, and was thankful that she was a big strong farm girl, for if she had been as tiny and delicate as her mistress, or as old and feeble as Frau Hirsch, she would most likely still have been dusting the furniture and mopping the floors.

Frau Fleischmann asked that Hanna play for her and she spoke of the concerts they would attend in Paris, about the opera, the exhibitions in the famous Musée du Louvre. “Perhaps later we will go to Vienna.”

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Hanna exclaimed.

That afternoon as Frau Fleischmann napped, Hanna went out for a walk. She knew she could no longer go to the Academy, but she wanted to let them know she would not return. The school had closed for the holidays, but would be reopening the following week. She didn’t know if anyone would be present.

She took the tram and then walked to Akademiestrasse. The door was locked. She peered in the window and found not a hint that anyone was in the building. As she turned she literally ran into Herr von Stuck.

“The Academy has closed for the holidays,” he said as if he did not recognize her. She was wearing a hat Frau Fleischmann had given her. She adjusted it, pulling it up to show her face.

“I’m the model, Hanna,” she said.

“Yes, of course.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be coming again.”

“Nein?”
He sounded disappointed, which made her feel her work at the Academy had some value.

“You’ve found employment elsewhere?” he asked, a wrinkle forming across his brow.

“Yes,” she answered. “I’ve taken on new duties.”

“We’ll miss you, Hanna,” he said sincerely. “Best of luck in your new endeavors.”

My new endeavors, she thought as she took the tram back to the Fleischmanns’, wondering what Herr Fleischmann had in store for her, curious to know if she would be assigned additional duties. But she soon learned from Frau Metzger that Herr Fleischmann had gone to Vienna and would not return for a week.

She waited, anxiously. Often in the afternoons when Frau Fleischmann slept, she went to the library and read, or to the music room to play, sitting alone with the piano. The rest of the staff seemed more relaxed during Herr Fleischmann’s absences. The mistress required very little and meals were not prepared for guests nor served in the dining room. Hanna grew impatient. She needed something else to occupy her time. She should have kept her job at the Academy. Herr Fleischmann might not even remember his offer when he came back home.

Two days after he returned, he called her to his room. This time he sat at his desk, making entries in a large book. Hanna knew he also kept an office at the gallery, where she assumed he did the business connected with the art, but running the large household must have been a business in itself.

He motioned her to sit on the chair in front of his desk. He closed the book, set the pen aside and looked up at her. His eyes were dark and serious, the tone heavy and deep. “What is it that you wish to do with your life, Hanna?” he asked.

Surely he was continuing the conversation they had started before Christmas. “I’m happy here, sir.” She laughed out of nervousness and felt very much like a child. “Well, when there is more to do. I find the time during which I do nothing quite boring.”

“Is this why you went to the studio to be a model at the Academy of Art?”

She didn’t want to talk about this. She couldn’t really explain in words why she went to the Academy, but she had given it up for him, and she thought it unfair of him to ask her to explain.

“I wanted . . . I wanted to see how it was done.”

“You want to be an artist?”

She shook her head. “There is no room for women at the Academy.”

“A woman might enroll at the Women Artists’ Association. Is this what you wish?”

Hanna knew she had no talent as an artist, but she wanted to know more about how it was created. She wanted to see more paintings, more drawings and sculptures. She wanted to see it, not to create it.

“No,” she said, “I have no desire to be an artist. I have no talent.”

“Then music? Frau Fleischmann would like you to develop this skill. She tells me you play the music by color.”

Hanna felt strangely betrayed by this, that Frau Fleischmann would share with her husband what she’d told her in a very private way. But perhaps this was how it was with husbands and wives.

“I enjoy the music, but . . .”

“Yes.” He motioned with his head, coaxing her to go on.

Why does he take such an interest in me?
she wondered.

“You think because you are a farmer’s daughter, because you are a woman, you cannot make use of your talents?”

It was because of Frau Fleischmann, she thought. He is doing this to please his wife. “Perhaps I should just marry well,” she came back, with surprising harshness in her voice, and regretted it immediately. Why should she have anger toward Herr Fleischmann, who had been nothing but kind to her? But why did he, as well as Frau Fleischmann, have such an interest in her future?

Herr Fleischmann smiled. “I’m not sure how much help I can be there,” he said. “I’ve always believed it is the heart that should lead in such matters. But in other areas, Hanna, Frau Fleischmann and I are prepared to help you. You are a woman of many talents.”

He was calling her a woman. Why should she feel this a greater compliment than his telling her she had talent? But she did. Hanna blushed and gazed down at the book on his desk.

“What are your dreams?” he asked.

She had never been asked this question before, had never seriously thought of it, though her mother had always called her a dreamer. What
were
her dreams? What would she like to do with her life, if she could do anything she wanted?

“My dream,” she said slowly, “is to be like you, Herr Fleischmann . . .” She couldn’t believe she had said this, and when her eyes rose to his and did not waver she could not believe her own boldness. But she wanted to catch his reaction, to see if she shocked him terribly. He said nothing, gave no indication that he thought she had spoken foolishly. He nodded as if he wished her to continue, and so she did. “To travel the world, to go to the studios of artists, to galleries, and museums, to see what is new, to find what will attract the eye of the collector, to discover art that will last and become part of history.”

Now he laughed, a deep, deep laugh. “You want to be like me?” he said with a grin. Well, there it was, she thought—he thinks me ridiculous.

He was silent for several moments, his expression pensive. He stood, gazed across the room, and then thoughtfully looked down at the parquet floor as if he wished to choose his words carefully, as not to hurt her feelings any more than he obviously had.

A woman art dealer? she thought. An artist perhaps, or a musician, surely just for the entertainment of men, to produce a nice little show, to display some delicate, feminine watercolors in the parlor, then take a bow and go back to the kitchen, or perhaps the dusting.

He continued to stare at the floor, which caused Hanna to look down, too. He cleared his throat. When they both looked up she could see the slightest movement on his face, almost a smile. In his eyes, not yet on his lips. “This is what we will do. Each afternoon while Frau Fleischmann naps, you will come to the gallery. Perhaps you will find your initial duties rather dull, but surely you don’t expect to become me without some work.” He shot her an amused, yet at the same time satisfied, grin.

Hanna was smiling now, too. She could not have thought of anything she would rather do.

The next afternoon, per Herr Fleischmann’s instructions, Hanna walked to the gallery on Theatinerstrasse. Herr Fleischmann was not there, but his assistant, Herr Engle, whom she had never formally met, but who had come to the house on occasion, greeted her warmly and said that he was expecting her and had a list of tasks for her to complete.

As she learned over the next several days, she was, indeed, not to become Herr Fleischmann without some work. Her duties were much like those she had been assigned at the Fleischmann home when she first arrived in Munich. She was little more than the cleaning lady—dusting frames, straightening up in the back room where frames were assembled, sweeping the carpet, preparing tea and coffee in the small kitchen. But, oh, just to be at the gallery each day, to see and hear the wonderful colors, to witness the comings and goings of both the art and the patrons. Artists came in, some to gaze, others to deliver paintings, to talk with Herr Fleischmann. Customers and collectors sat to discuss a purchase, sipping coffee, partaking of little pastries.

Though her contact with the customers was limited to making them comfortable, offering coffee or tea, she observed carefully as they came in and out of the gallery. She began to see how the patrons’ tastes were different, which particular pieces they might favor, who preferred which artists, and how each artist had his own style.

She learned quickly, through overheard conversations, those who were truly in a position to buy, those who had the greatest resources. The banker, Herr Ostner; the factory owner, Herr Hummel; the brewer, Herr Adelmann. They were looking to the future, as most astute businessmen, purchasing works to adorn their mansions, their country homes, to show them off, to display their good taste, to offer evidence that they had money enough to hang it on the wall for guests to admire. But also to possess works that would one day be sought by others. The rich, Hanna soon learned, intended only to become richer. Art was art, but also a business. And there was a profit to be made.