The Woman Who Heard Color (31 page)

Again she feared not just for the art, but for herself. The man had a very long memory, and was known to hold a grudge. He knew she was the wife of the deceased Jew Moses Fleischmann, an expert on the modern, and Hanna was sure now, after her dinner at Berchtesgaden, that he recalled it was she who’d sent him out of the gallery, portfolio tucked under his arm.

Soon other dealers, those Hanna had known from Berlin, visited the warehouse, and she realized that her suggestion had been passed on to a higher level. Hitler was taking advantage of those who knew the value of a Picasso or Van Gogh. He might despise the art, but he was aware of its worth. The best of the paintings, those that could fetch the greatest prices, would not be destroyed. But what of the others?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

 

“We are installing another location at Schloss Niederschönhausen,” Herr Strasser told Hanna one morning. She knew this as a palatial estate on the outskirts of Berlin, and guessed the location would provide a more appealing setting for showing the art and for entertaining guests and buyers. “I would like you to assist in the selection of our inventory to be relocated.”

Hanna realized that she was being asked to select those pieces that would survive, those that might be purchased and therefore escape possible destruction. There were so many; how could she choose?

She began, picking not only those that she personally favored, but those she felt would be of interest to buyers. Each day several were loaded onto large trucks to be transported to their new location. Hanna continued entering the information into the records: the official records and her own secret records.

Often she was required to spend her days at Schloss Niederschönhausen, accompanying “clients” who came to examine the art. Foreign dealers could buy just about anything they wanted. Deals were made—always in foreign currency. And always, Hanna was instructed to inform the museum representatives, the gallery owners, and the collectors who came to purchase, that the money would go back to the German museums, that new art would be purchased with the funds.

She was moved from her small dingy hotel to the newly refurbished Schloss Bellevue, which once served as a royal residence and had now been taken over by the Nazis and set up as a hotel for their guests. The hotel was lavishly furnished with damask drapes, velvet furniture with tapestry cushions, marble moldings and banisters, rugs from the Orient, paintings in gilt frames. Meals were served in an elegant dining hall, prepared by one of the finest chefs in Berlin. She sat with dignitaries, government officials, and honored guests. Hanna told herself she was not one of them, that she was here only because she wished to save the art. When she allowed herself to think of her children in America, she wondered if they were better off without her. How would they feel if they knew their mother was working so closely with the Nazis, sharing meals with government officials and men of rank in Hitler’s army, men who spoke openly of destroying the Jewish race?

One morning, she was informed that a group of representatives from a museum in Basel would like to examine paintings housed at Schloss Niederschönhausen. One representative was particularly interested in work by artists from
Der Blaue Reiter
of Munich. Since Hanna had an intimate knowledge of these particular artists, she was asked to accompany him through the collection.

Her young assistant—the second who had been assigned to her, the shadow who accompanied her everywhere—escorted her from the hotel and drove her to the facility. He dropped her off and went to park the automobile. She guessed that the young man, a beefy youth named Günter, was also in need of a cigarette, as he no longer smoked in her presence or near her paintings since she had severely reprimanded him for smoking in the galleries.

A group of men stood with Herr Franz Hofmann inside the entry. He turned and was about to introduce Hanna when her eyes caught those of one of the gentlemen. Her heart pushed up, catching in her throat, and she thought she might faint. No air entered her lungs. She couldn’t breathe.

It had been many years since she had seen him. The lines emphasizing his smile had been etched deeper in his face. His mustache was flecked with silver, and his hair had turned a snowy white. But he was still as handsome as the day they met twelve years ago on the ship from America.

 

 

“
M
ay I introduce Herr Johann Keller from the Kunstmuseum in Basel,” Herr Hofmann said. “Our Frau Fleischmann has great knowledge, particularly of
Der Blaue Reiter
in which you have expressed an interest. She would be pleased to escort you through the collection.”

Hanna could see that Johann Keller was as stunned as she to meet once more, and they were both without words until Herr Hofmann and his group of clients were well beyond hearing distance.

“Hanna,” he said slowly, and the color and tone of her name from his lips sent a surge of heat through her. “I didn’t expect this.”

“Nor I,” she said. The years had been good to him. Hanna knew that she looked very different from when they first met, that she had aged. Perhaps not well. But strangely at this moment she was grateful they had met here rather than at the Köpenickerstrasse location. When she worked at the warehouse she barely bothered to look in the mirror before she left her hotel. When she was to meet with clients at Schloss Niederschönhausen, she styled her hair, put on makeup, and checked her clothing to assure it was clean and pressed. She was grateful for these services that residing at the elegant Schloss Bellevue Hotel now allowed.

“You look well, Hanna,” he said, and Hanna wondered if it could possibly be true. She felt as if the hardships of the past years had drained her of any beauty and health she might have once possessed.

“And you also, Johann.” They stood silently studying each other and she sensed he wanted to touch her. “You are now employed by the Kunstmuseum in Basel?” she said.

“For the past nine years. And you, Hanna?”

“Here in Berlin, for a short time now . . .”

He waited for her to explain further, but she could think of nothing she might tell him without revealing something that would put her in danger.

“Your business in Munich?” he inquired.

“We closed the gallery, and then . . . Moses passed away shortly after . . . Eventually we had to sell everything.” Hanna shivered, thinking of Moses, of Josef, how she never spoke of these losses, how there was no one in her life now who knew or cared.

“Oh, Hanna, I’m so sorry,” he said sincerely.

She felt a hard, cold lump in her chest, and then a rough, hot stone of renewed guilt over the betrayal of her husband. “It was difficult to find work, and then this opportunity.”

“Willy. He’s doing well?” There was caution in his inquiry, as he knew from their long-ago conversations that Willy’s health was at times very fragile.

“In America with my sister.”

“In America? Yet you remain here in Germany?” His voice was low and there was a softness of color, the soothing timbre of a voice that had comforted her years ago when she feared she might lose her son.

She felt a tear well in her eye, but ordered herself not to cry. Not here, not now. “Life is not always as one might wish,” she said. Surely Johann would know it was not by choice that she had been separated from her children.
Her children?
She would not speak of little Isabella. Hanna would not. Could not.

“Herr Keller,” she said, her voice rising in volume, “I would be delighted to show you through our collection.”

As they started through the gallery, though it was but a more agreeable storage place than the grain warehouse, they spoke nervously, guardedly. He told her that he was on the verge of retirement, but had been asked by the museum to come to Berlin to acquire art that had been removed from the German museums. His sons were doing well. The two eldest were married and Johann now had two grandchildren. The youngest son had just started university. He did not speak of his wife.

“Oh, Hanna, not a day has gone by since we parted that I have not thought of you,” he said abruptly, turning to her, reaching for her hand. She stepped back, fearing someone might notice.

“Oh, Johann, please . . .” She could not tell him that she, too, thought of him each day, that she saw his face, his smile, his eyes in their beautiful little daughter. Isabella, now in America, growing up with neither a father nor mother.

“I knew when we parted,” he said, “we agreed we would not meet again. But now, is it not fate that has brought us together once more?”

Hanna thought of the last time they were together. At sea, a world between two worlds, existing only for that time and place. She had dreamed of seeing him again, but never imagined it would happen. Now what could she dare ask of him?

“I must see you, Hanna, away from here, away from this business.”

She thought of a conversation she had several weeks ago with one of the Berlin dealers. He had implied that it might be possible for someone in a particular position to withhold items for private viewings. Works of particular interest to his clients could be sold without going through the normal channels, and if she could assist . . . He didn’t outright ask her to do this, but Hanna understood what he wanted. She was tempted, as additional funds might have helped her find some way out of Germany. Now she realized if she were to meet Johann, even if she could escape her constant escort, questions might arise if they were seen together.

“Herr Hofmann says you are interested in work from
Der Blaue Reiter
,” she said, motioning as she walked ahead of Herr Keller.

They passed sculptures displayed on a large table and approached a colorful Kandinsky, a piece Hanna remembered so clearly from the early days of
Der Blaue Reiter
in Munich. A man on a horse, the lines very simple, the colors—red and yellow and blue—pure and vibrant.

“One of your favorites,” Johann said as they stood before the painting. “The Russian.”

“I’ve always been fond of this particular artist,” she said stiffly, and then with a little smile, “though many might claim him as German.”

“And the music?” he asked with his own quick smile. “Do you hear the music?”

She felt a sudden pulse of pleasure at his smile, at the realization of how well he knew her, though they had spent little more than a week together.

“So many years have passed, Hanna.”

“And so much has changed.”

“And yet, so much remains. Feelings that we were forced to deny. Have these changed?” He touched her now, lightly on the hand, and she did not draw away. And it came back to her—the intensity of the short time they had spent together. They had agreed then that being together would have hurt so many they loved. Why could they not meet under different circumstances, in a world in which they might find each other and be together? Moses was gone, but surely Johann still had his wife. If this were not true, he would have spoken of a similar loss when she told him of her husband’s death. Yet, even if Johann was free now, Hanna had no control over any aspect of her life. She was a prisoner in her own country. And she knew she could not tell him of the deception she had lived with for these past many years.

“This painting,” she said, pulling her hand away from the heat of his. “Perhaps it might find a home outside of Germany.”

“Perhaps,” he said, but he was not gazing at the painting. He was staring at Hanna.

She turned quickly and they moved on to another canvas,
Zwei Katzen Blau und Gelb
, two colorful cats curled into a beautiful composition, a lovely piece by Franz Marc.

“Could we meet later?” he asked.

“You speak of fate, Johann. Is it fate that dictates we must meet only when I fear a great loss is imminent?”

“A loss?” he asked, thoughtfully.

She wanted to explain what was happening in Germany. She wanted to explain so much. They were alone, without her usual escort, and she sensed that she might speak more freely, and yet at the same time a never-ceasing fear, her constant companion now, a distrust of everyone, would not release her to speak openly.

“How is it that you came to be here,” he asked, “assisting to rid Germany of the modern? This is the very art that you loved, paintings that were identified with the Fleischmann Gallery.”

Hanna could not speak. How could she tell him of her personal fears, as well as her fears for the art and for her country?

“Would it be true,” he asked, “to say we are not only acquiring art, but rescuing it?” His eyes moved slowly over the colors of Franz Marc, appraising the piece, and then he glanced back at Hanna and she caught something in his eyes that told her he understood she did not support the Nazi government, that she, too, wished only to save the art.

“Oh, Johann,” she said, and then, before she could pull them back, the words escaped her mouth, “I fear it might all be destroyed. It must be taken so that it might survive.” She felt a sharp, painful stab in her chest.

“The world is not without eyes, without a heart. Perhaps there is more than art that cries out for rescue.”

“Indeed there is much in Germany in need of rescue.”

“There has been talk,” he continued carefully, “that the proceeds might be diverted from the museums to . . .” He hesitated as if he wished Hanna to finish his sentence.

Inwardly she told herself to hold on to some caution. “For Hitler’s military efforts?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. This was the first time she had admitted in words what in the darkest part of her heart she knew was true.

Hitler had recently annexed Austria. Surely the world outside grew uneasy as Germany openly rebuilt its military forces.

They moved on to a Klee done in dark earth tones. Paul Klee, also a member of
Der Blaue Reiter
, was Swiss, as was Johann. Hanna knew he had a particular affection for this artist.