The Woman Who Heard Color (18 page)

“You love your cousins, don’t you, dear Willy?” Hanna replied, giving him a hug.

“I want my own so when we get home I will have someone to play with.”

Hanna was now forty-two and had longed for another child, but she knew it would not be.

“We’ll come back to visit again someday,” she offered.

She thought Willy’s heart might break when they said their farewells, but she reminded him he would see his papa after they got off the big boat.

No sooner had they embarked from New York than Willy took ill. It started with the familiar cough, moving into his lungs. Within a day he was so ill, Hanna feared that she might lose him. She called for the ship’s doctor, but longed for Dr. Langermann in Munich, or even a specialist in America. She asked the captain if he could turn the ship back, so impaired was her thinking.

“There are other passengers, a schedule,” he said kindly.

“Yes, of course, I understand.”

For two days, Hanna barely slept. She stayed beside Willy, having meals brought to the cabin.

On the third evening, Sasha said, “Please, Frau Fleischmann, I can sit with Willy. Some fresh air would do you good.”

“
Danke
, Sasha. Perhaps you’re right.” She threw on her wrap and hat and went up on deck. The sea was calm, the sky clear, the sounds soft and subdued. She thought of how much Willy loved the water, running about the big boat, visiting with the other passengers. She thought of Moses and wondered how he would survive if they lost him. How would she survive? Hanna closed her eyes and prayed that God would protect her son and bring him home safely.

“
Guten Abend.
It’s a lovely evening.”

She had not heard the man approach, nor had she seen anyone on the deck nearby, and for a moment Hanna thought she was hallucinating because the voice sounded like Moses.

When she turned, she must have had a startled look on her face, for the man said, “Pardon, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She could see now, the voice, the color had a touch more red than Moses’, and the man, who was tall and slender—almost too thin—looked nothing like her husband. The moon, full and ripe, provided enough illumination that she could make out his face, which was angular, catching the light in the most interesting way, a highlighted cheekbone, a slight cleft in the chin. His hair appeared to be blond and he wore a full, well-groomed mustache. The softness of his colors, the sharp angles of his face and form, created an intriguing contrast. He was one of the most physically appealing men she had ever seen, and Hanna was overcome with bewilderment, tainted with shame that she would notice this, when she was so fraught with worry over her son’s health.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said, and turned and left, returning to her cabin.

The following morning, there was still no improvement in Willy’s condition. Frantically Hanna called for the ship’s doctor.

“Rest and liquid,” he offered. “Make sure he does not become dehydrated.” She sat with Willy all day, lifting his head from the pillow, helping him to swallow. Seeing her mistress was exhausted, Sasha said she would sit with him while Hanna got some sleep.

But she couldn’t sleep, so Hanna threw on her wrap and left the cabin. She returned to the same place she’d met the stranger the evening before.

This time she was aware when he approached.

“Guten Abend,”
Hanna said.

“Guten Abend,”
he replied. “I must offer my apologies for frightening you last evening.”

“And I for my abruptness,” she said.

“Perhaps I should also apologize for my approaching a woman standing alone,” he added, and Hanna smiled inwardly. Was he expressing regret for something that he had done again this evening?

They stood silently, gazing out to sea, and she felt a welcome comfort in the quiet, the gentle sway of the boat, the mere presence of this man.

Finally he said, “I haven’t seen you in the dining room. You are traveling alone?”

“With my son. He’s taken ill, and I’m not inclined to be very sociable.”

“Again, my apologies.” He turned to leave. He seemed to misunderstand that she was only explaining why she was not taking dinner with the other passengers, attempting to account for her rude behavior the evening before. But what excuse could she offer to herself for having returned, for wishing that she might see him once more?

“No, please,” she called out, “stay.”

He made no further movement, said nothing, but then slowly he walked back toward her.

“A woman in my employment for many years has accompanied us,” Hanna told him. “She’s sitting with Willy now. I wouldn’t leave him alone.” She felt a need to explain this to the man—that she was a good, loving mother. “We’ve been visiting my sister and her family in America.” Suddenly Hanna was overcome with an urge to talk—about anything, nothing, everything. “My husband was not able to accompany us. His business . . . It’s not a good time for him to leave for an extended period.” Hanna knew it was the fatigue manifesting itself in this chattiness. She didn’t want the man to leave.

“It is difficult,” he said kindly, “so difficult when you feel helpless. If there was something I could do.”

“Thank you for your concern.”

“How old is your son?”

“Fifteen,” Hanna replied, “but in many ways he is much younger. He doesn’t learn as quickly as other children. He requires special care. But such a sweet boy, such a pleasure to . . . I’m so frightened that we might lose him.” She was crying now, the man standing beside her, obviously not knowing what to say or do. What an uncomfortable position she had put him in. She rubbed the back of her hand against her eyes, and then gazed up at him. An anxious look pressed his brow, and she sensed he wanted desperately to console her. If he had taken her in his arms at this moment, Hanna would not have protested. He reached in his pocket and took out a fresh handkerchief and handed it to her.

“Please,” she said with a sniffle, “forgive me.”

“Forgive me for having so little comfort to offer,” he said. “I, too, have children.”

“Danke,”
she said. “Thank you. I must go tend to my son.”

“I wish you both well,” he said.

 

 

T
he following morning, finally, Willy began to show improvement. By afternoon, he was sitting up, chatting, eating, asking if he might go outdoors to see the big ocean and the other people. “Perhaps tomorrow,” Hanna told him, overjoyed with Willy’s renewed energy and enthusiasm, yet still taking precautions to ensure his full recovery.

Now she felt as if she had an obligation to share this good news with the man.

Again that evening she returned to the deck and found him, as if he were waiting for her.

“So wonderful to hear of your son’s recovered health,” he said after Hanna told him how well Willy was doing now. “I thought about you and your son all day.” He smiled. He had a lovely, generous smile, and she felt as if he had been saving it up for this good news.

“Thank you.” She reached in her bag and produced the freshly laundered handkerchief. “For being kind, for listening, for the use of your handkerchief.” She handed it to him, and then formally, awkwardly, she said, “Hanna Fleischmann.” It seemed strange that they had spent the past two evenings in each other’s company and had yet to introduce themselves.

“Johann Keller,” he said, placing the handkerchief back in his pocket. “You are returning home?”

“Yes, Germany,” she replied. “Munich. And you?”

“Zurich.”

For several moments they stood without words, as if both were attempting to determine what to say next. Hanna’s message had been delivered, she had returned the handkerchief. Should she excuse herself now?

He said, “Your husband was not able to accompany you because of business?”

She nodded.

“What is your husband’s business?” he asked with interest.

“Art.”

“Your husband is an artist?” His brow rose as if he couldn’t imagine Hanna as the wife of an artist. His eyes ran over her, discreetly, her fine clothing, the latest fashions purchased just before her departure for America. Without doubt, he was thinking if this woman is married to an artist, he is a very successful artist.

“No, not an artist, but a dealer of art.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “In Munich. A rather lively place for art in the last several decades.”

“You have an interest in art?”

“Coincidently, yes,” he said, offering now a delighted smile of discovery. “I work for a private gallery in Zurich.”

“Why, how interesting. Do tell me about your gallery.”

Again, he studied her, and then his lovely smile widened as if he had just come upon a great treasure. “Hanna Fleischmann?”

She nodded.

“Your husband is Moses Fleischmann?”

“You know him?”

“Of him, yes, of course. Anyone dealing art in Europe is aware of Moses Fleischmann, of his eye for what has often set the trend in the new movements. The proprietor of the gallery in which I’m employed has purchased several paintings through the Fleischmann Gallery.”

“Oh, please tell me,” she said, her voice jumping with excitement, “which artists?”

“Beckman, Kirchner, August Macke, Kandinsky—”

“Kandinsky is my artist,” she cut in, “not Moses’.”

He looked startled, but intrigued, perhaps even charmed, though this was certainly not her intention. “Your artist?” he asked with a grin. “How is it that you might claim the Russian Kandinsky?”

She went on to tell him of her own personal interest in the art chosen by the Fleischmann Gallery, the paintings that hung in their home, the Kandinsky
Composition
that had brought such pleasure to both herself and Willy.

“I understand he’s up to eight
Compositions
now,” Herr Keller said. “How many do you predict?”

“Who could even venture a guess,” she replied with a laugh. “The first have little resemblance to the last, and the man continues to reinvent himself.”

“Which makes him all the more interesting,” Herr Keller observed.

“Yes,” Hanna agreed.

They spoke of artists who had been painting in Germany since the war, surrounded, they both admitted, by substantial controversy, and of Swiss artists who were being shown at the gallery in Zurich, of Paul Klee, whom the Fleischmanns had represented in Munich.

The evening passed so quickly that the sky was beginning to lighten when finally she said, “My goodness, I must return to my cabin to check on Willy. It has been a pleasure visiting with you, Herr Keller.”

“The pleasure has been mine, Frau Fleischmann.”

The following evening, without having spoken of the possibility, they met again, as if they had scheduled this meeting place and time. They talked more about art, artists and creativity, and self-expression. He told her that he, too, had been visiting his sister who lived in New York. His wife and children, three sons, had remained home in Zurich. He asked about her sister and brother-in-law and she told him about their dairy farm and business.

“Koebler Creamery,” she said, “established before the war, using old family recipes developed in Germany. They are just now beginning to make ice cream. You’ll have to try it the next time you visit New York City, where it should be available soon. Hans Koebler is a savvy businessman.”

“Koebler. I’ll keep that in mind. Fine German cheese in America. Now, ice cream,” he added with a warm smile, “can always win my heart.”

A smile warm enough to melt ice cream,
Hanna thought, feeling her own heart jump as if through a ring of fire.

He said, “You have told me about your husband, your involvement in your husband’s business, your family in America. Tell me now more about Hanna Fleischmann.” He seemed genuinely interested. She told him of growing up on a dairy farm in Bavaria, about her many brothers and sisters, her father, mother, and stepmother.

“Ah,” he said, “yes, you have the wholesome, fresh look of a girl from the country.”

“Wholesome?” she asked with a laugh and a blush. She had spent much of her time at her sister’s outdoors and her naturally pale complexion had taken on some sun, a splatter of freckles across her nose.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. “You appear very healthy, as if you have spent time outdoors.”

“This you believe is what a woman wants to hear from a man?” She could not believe they were speaking so freely, so intimately. She was a married woman, he a married man. Surely this was not proper behavior. “Do I take this as a compliment,” she continued, unabashed, “or an insult?”

“A compliment, of course. Health and vitality is a desirable quality in a woman.”

Desirable?
she thought. They were flirting with each other. How could she allow herself to carry on in such a manner?

“But,” he added, “when it is combined with the sophistication of an educated, cultured woman of the city, how could any man resist.” Finally he blushed a little, too, but did not hesitate to continue. “How was it that you came to Munich, that you became the wife of Moses Fleischmann?” They were veering the conversation back to this—the fact that she was a married woman, as if they both realized the inappropriateness of such talk.

She told him about the day she had simply walked out of the house, down the lane, away from the farm, and taken off for Munich alone.

He grinned. “A young woman with a great sense of adventure, unafraid of the unknown world.”

Was she venturing forth once more, Hanna wondered, into an unknown world?

She spoke of becoming an employee in the Fleischmann home, how she was taken into the family. She even told him—much to her own astonishment—about going to the Academy of Fine Arts. About the drawing Moses had given her as a gift.

They spoke of the difficult times that came from the war, of her personal challenges in caring for Willy, in keeping up with the developments in the art world over these past years. She told him about the colors, something she had shared with so few. Other than this stranger Hanna met on the boat, the only man with whom she felt she could speak openly was Josef, but he was a man with whom a woman could have nothing more than friendship.