The Woman Who Heard Color (33 page)

But the following morning, when Hanna went down for breakfast, she learned that Günter had been relieved of his duties, and she had been assigned a new assistant.

Often Hanna took out the photo that Käthe had sent—the children smiling into the camera. Willy a young man, though still a child. Now he was gone, and Isabella was eleven, no longer the little girl in this photo. Hanna knew that, somehow, she had to find her way to her daughter.

Plans for the auction in Switzerland moved forward. It was to take place on June 30, 1939, with previews in both Zurich and Lucerne prior to the sale. Letters were sent to prospective buyers—those who had made the trip to Berlin and purchased work, collectors and dealers who had expressed interest, museum representatives. Many were now reluctant to come to the city. Hanna had little contact with anyone outside, but she believed, after the riots of that November night, now often referred to as
Kristallnacht
—the night of broken glass—the world might finally understand the horrors taking place in her country.

She did not hear from Johann Keller.

One day as she was carefully completing the suggested text for the catalogue, describing the 126 pieces that she herself had recommended for the auction, a list that had been closely scrutinized by Herr Hofmann, Herr Ziegler, Herr Goebbels, even Hitler, Hanna realized that they were coming to the end. After the auction, the work that had been deemed unworthy, work that she herself had been forced to omit from the auction, pieces not picked up by clients in Berlin, would be destroyed.

Over the next few days she considered the possibility of taking some of the smaller pieces out of the warehouse—drawings, watercolors, prints, and graphics. The canvases were too large and bulky. One afternoon, when she had a rare moment alone, she concealed a small print between her skirt and slip and miraculously she managed to smuggle it out with her that evening. Two days later, she was able to take a small watercolor, the next day a drawing. She feared that she would be discovered, but with over 16,000 pieces, it might be some time before the discrepancies were realized. Each evening, she tucked her rescued art beneath her bed, in her bureau, in the closet of her room.

Among those she was able to remove from the inventory was a small Kandinsky done in greens, blues, and golds, taken from the Staatsgalerie in Stuttgart. It still contained a hint of representational art—possibly a horse with rider, a mountain—yet the painting was moving very close to abstract.

She thought back to her first encounter with Kandinsky, the Russian Prince, as she served him dinner in the Fleischmann home shortly after her arrival in Munich. Then an image of the art student at the Academy came to her. The colors of Kandinsky’s
Composition II
flashed in her mind, the painting Hanna and Moses had always referred to as Willy’s Colors. She pictured Kandinsky leaving the gallery, the door closing behind him as the young artist, A. Hitler, entered. There was something pathetically symbolic in this disturbing reflection.

Hanna had not seen nor spoken with Wassily Kandinsky in more than twenty years, yet it seemed their lives and work were once more intersecting.

Among the art she successfully removed were a tiny Klee with colorful figures of fish, confiscated from the Dresden museum, and an Otto Dix pen-and-ink drawing from the Staatsgalerie in Stuttgart, depicting the horrors of the Great War in black and white. A Max Beckmann from the Mannheim State Gallery—two intertwined figures, surely obscene to Hitler—also made its way out of the warehouse. Somehow she would set these free, though she had no idea when or how. But she was determined that at least these four small pictures would survive.

She wished that she might save more, but soon thousands of pieces that had not been purchased or designated for the auction in Switzerland were removed from the warehouse, which was now almost empty. Hanna knew that they would be destroyed.

On March 20, 1939, much sooner than even she had predicted, Hanna witnessed the burning of 1,004 paintings and 3,825 drawings, watercolors, and graphics—yes, she knew the exact number because she had meticulously inventoried and catalogued each of them. She had saved so few, and she knew this was just the beginning of the final purge. She watched as the flames, the colors bright and glaring in her ears, licked, and slapped, and devoured.

Theodor Fischer, a slender man with thick dark brows hovering above his spectacles, arrived from Lucerne in April to examine the art selected for the auction in Switzerland. It was soon obvious that the man had no love for the art. He saw it as a business and nothing more, so Hanna conducted herself in a businesslike manner. They worked easily together.

“May I make a suggestion?” Hanna said boldly.

Herr Fischer looked back from examining a painting by the German artist Emil Nolde. Silently, he nodded.

“Perhaps if we provide the paintings with proper frames, they would appear more appealing to the buyers.”

Again Herr Fischer said nothing.

They would never have shown a painting at the Fleischmann Gallery unframed, and Hanna had always selected the materials herself, the colors and textures, as well as the harmony of the sounds, guiding her.

Finally Herr Fischer replied, “I believe your assessment is correct. Speak to your supervisor about supplying the proper materials. Anything we can do to make this rubbish more agreeable.”

The day after Theodor Fischer left Berlin, Hanna learned he had asked that she travel to Switzerland and assist with the installation at preview locations in Zurich and Lucerne, as she exhibited an efficiency and dedication that he greatly admired.

Much to her surprise, the arrangements were made. Hanna would be going to Switzerland.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

Isabella picked up the photograph of herself and Willy and carried it to the kitchen. She got a pair of reading glasses—one of many she stashed around the house—and a small screwdriver out of the junk drawer, pulled the wastebasket from under the sink over to the table, and sat.

Willy smiled up at her from behind the cracked glass. The girl stared, the raw pain reaching out to Isabella, who felt oddly both detached from and entwined with her younger self. She’d kept the picture in the bedroom bureau and hadn’t looked at it in years. She’d kept the feelings hidden away for a long time, too.

We’ll just see if Lauren O’Farrell follows through and brings a new piece of glass tomorrow,
Isabella thought, flipping the photo over. As she pried at the metal tab holding it in the frame, the screwdriver slipped, jabbing the base of her thumb, leaving a streak of broken red skin. She felt a flash of pain. Her hands were trembling. She set the frame aside and placed one hand over the other, pressing at the skin around the unsightly scratch.

As she moved her fingers over the blue veins of a spotted hand that looked much older than she felt inside, Isabella was reminded again that she had some serious decisions to make. Once more she asked herself if it had been wise to invite this young woman into her home. She’d concluded, after her call, that Lauren O’Farrell had learned about the Kandinsky painting and she’d come to question the legality of its ownership. Isabella believed she had the proper papers, and some type of authentication needed to be done before she passed on. But could she trust this young woman? After spending the afternoon together, each stepping carefully with their guarded words and revelations, Isabella still wasn’t completely sure. She imagined Lauren was entertaining the same thoughts about whether or not she could trust Isabella.

But Isabella was absolutely sure of one thing now—the woman had come to make accusations about her mother. The way Lauren kept pressing for information on Berlin. Yes, she was here to make accusations.

At times Isabella wondered if perhaps her mother
had
collaborated with the Nazis. Or stolen art. What if the money for her education, for Isabella’s early life in America, had come from sources other than those her mother claimed? Yet there was the art in their home in Munich and in the gallery—all gone now. She knew the paintings were valuable, though deflated by what was happening in Germany at the time they were sold. But there would have been some family money. The Fleischmanns had been very wealthy.

And, still haunting her thoughts—the fear that what Mr. Keller told her years ago when they met had been nothing but lies. Lies to protect Hanna.

Isabella got up and stepped over to the refrigerator. She felt weak, her stomach empty and queasy at the same time. She should eat something. Opening the vegetable crisper, she took out lettuce, a tomato, broccoli, mushrooms, and fresh green onions. Yes, a nice salad. She’d add some canned tuna. She walked over to the breadbox and pulled out a loaf of French bread. Maybe she’d have a small glass of wine.

As she washed the lettuce, sliced the tomato, she couldn’t shake the thought that she had to decide soon, and this whole ordeal with Mrs. O’Farrell had reminded her of the necessity of doing so.

Andrew always told Isabella that it was up to her to decide what to do with the Kandinsky. Legally, and perhaps emotionally, too, the painting belonged to Isabella. It hadn’t even been mentioned in Andrew’s will. Ownership of the business, Fletcher Enterprises, now being run by a Fletcher nephew, had been divided up among the Fletcher family members, Isabella still retaining majority control. At her death, Isabella’s shares would be distributed in the same fashion, and family members knew this would be their sole, though very generous, inheritance. She had a fairly large income each year, and much of it went to charitable causes, including those that supported art and children. These gifts would continue after her death. Several of the older Fletchers knew about the Kandinsky, though none had expressed a love for this type of art and, amazingly, the existence of the painting had not become public knowledge. Because of the many reproductions she owned, visitors had always believed that it, too, was an imitation.

She hadn’t displayed it openly in the home since Andrew’s death and she’d kept pretty much to herself. Most of her trusted friends were gone, and in all reality she hadn’t had many. With so many secrets, she found it hard to confide in others. Andrew had been her best friend. Her only friend, she thought at times.

If she dropped dead today, the painting would most likely have to be sold to pay the estate taxes and would undoubtedly go into a private collection. She knew this wasn’t what she wanted. It had been hidden for too many years. Perhaps it was time for Kandinsky’s
Composition II
to make itself known to the world.

Isabella got a can of tuna out of the cupboard, half expecting Mittie to come sauntering into the kitchen at the whir of the can opener, the whiff of fish. That fat, old, saucy cat had been her companion for more than twelve years, and she’d lost him just three months ago. She’d considered getting a new cat, but at her age, that would be about as ridiculous as getting a new husband.

Isabella sat alone, eating her salad, sipping her wine, turning one thought and then another over and over in her mind.

 

 

On the walk to the subway, Lauren called Patrick and told him she was on her way.

“Should I start dinner?” he asked.

“There’s some chicken thawing in the fridge. I can broil it when I get home.” She knew if she left it to Patrick, he’d fry it. “You could get started on a salad. Tomatoes on the side.” She knew Adam wouldn’t eat the tomatoes, and Lauren knew that right now she didn’t have the energy to talk him into trying a bite or two. “Maybe a can of peas.” Strangely, her son loved those mushy little pale green peas from a can. She’d stop at the bakery a block from home and pick up a loaf of the Kalamata olive ciabatta bread that Patrick loved.

“She actually agreed to see you,” he said with some pride in his voice. He’d always thought Lauren had a lot of nerve, as well as courage, in what she was doing. “You learned more about Hanna Fleischmann?”

“You won’t believe what I learned,” she said, immediately thinking of Mrs. Fletcher’s request. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—share anything about the Kandinsky with Patrick. “I’ve got another appointment with her tomorrow.”

Lauren could hear Adam, talking to his dad in the background, and Patrick said, “
Your
son needs some attention.” He laughed. “Can’t wait until you get home.”

As she hurried down to the subway, Lauren thought of Mrs. Fletcher’s uneasiness, her obvious discomfort when she mentioned her mother waiting in Berlin for her papers to go to America. Yet, throughout the afternoon, the woman’s emotions had jumped from extreme composure, to anger, to sadness, to exhaustion, and back again. Maybe Lauren was reading something into Isabella’s reaction to the mention of Berlin.

Her train arrived; she got on, found a seat, and pulled out her notebook. Flipping past the page on which she’d written the frame’s measurements, she jotted down information, dates, and facts that Mrs. Fletcher had revealed to her, underlining those she wanted to verify or research further. Weary, Lauren closed her eyes. Images of Mrs. Fletcher’s apartment worked their way into her head—the paintings, the lovely furnishings, the drawing of young Hanna, the photo of Isabella and her brother, Willy. She thought of the stories Isabella had told her. Realizing that their stories—Isabella’s and Lauren’s—had come together in an obvious but oddly unexpected way, Lauren wondered why she had not considered this possibility earlier.

She’d known from the moment she discovered that Isabella Fletcher was likely the daughter of Hanna Fleischmann that Mrs. Fletcher’s father was Jewish. But she’d been unable to get past the fact that Isabella’s mother was, at the least, a thief and Nazi collaborator, if not a traitor to her own family. Now Lauren wasn’t sure of anything.

The picture of the Fleischmann children morphed in Lauren’s mind to a different black-and-white photo, this one taken in the late thirties in London. Lauren’s father as a toddler, his five-year-old sister, Mimi, their mother, Miriam Rosenthal. Lauren had discovered it in her father’s desk when she was seven. She knew she shouldn’t be going through her father’s things, but she also knew there were secrets in those drawers. The woman in the photo had a haunted look in her eyes. Like a crazy person.