The Woman Who Heard Color (44 page)

Hanna stripped the bed and put the sheets in the bathtub to soak. She’d haul them down to the apartment house washroom later that morning. She made coffee, the one cup she allowed herself each morning, got the newspaper, and sat down to read.

According to headlines on the first page, the war in the Pacific was all but over. The Japanese had yet to surrender, but this past month, in August, Japan had been devastated when the United States dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, something so horrible Hanna could not imagine. The world knew that the war in Asia was about to end, again with the triumph of the Allies, though Hanna could see no triumph in war.

The war in Europe had ended in May when Germany surrendered. Hitler, as it turned out, had not lived to surrender.

Hanna remembered clearly the first day of May. It was cold and rainy, the gray colors and tones carrying no trace of spring. She had finished a batch of sewing and was taking the subway to deliver it to the dry-cleaning store and pick up more work. With the rationing and the lack of merchandise available, including clothing, she was very busy now and had a large bundle to return. She made her way to the subway, fighting the wind, package in hand, struggling with her umbrella, attempting to close it as she approached the entrance tunnel. An elderly man, sopping wet from the rain, but grinning like a lunatic, stopped to help her. Since America had entered the war, it seemed everyone was working together, strangers and family alike. Suddenly he started dancing a jig, and then he shouted to everyone within hearing distance, “He’s dead! Hitler’s dead!”

“It’s over, then? The war is over?” a mother clutching two small children asked.

“I’ll believe it when I see the body,” a teenage boy replied. “If this is coming from those lying Germans, I won’t believe it ’til I see the corpse.”

Hanna got off at her stop, still wondering if it was true. The war had produced one crazy rumor after another. Hitler had died at least a dozen times already.

The manager at the dry cleaner’s had heard the same, and on the way home, Hanna picked up a late-edition newspaper. Germany had indeed announced Hitler’s death. The Führer, according to German radio reports, had gone down fighting to the end.

Hanna felt numb. Strangely, she did not rejoice at this man’s demise.

The articles that appeared in the following days confirmed Hitler’s death, but it came about in a much more cowardly way—he had committed suicide in a bunker in Berlin.

Hanna folded her newspaper and rose to rinse out her cup. She felt dizzy. She should get something to eat, she told herself. She sat down again. The phone rang.

“Mother,” Isabella said, “it’s over. The war is over. The Japanese have surrendered.”

Intense heat invaded Hanna’s body. Blood rushed to her head, pounding like two hammers at the base of her skull. And then she felt herself drop to the floor.

The next thing she knew, she was being hauled out on a gurney. Mrs. Semple, the building superintendent’s wife, stood beside her as they loaded Hanna into an ambulance. She knew she had soaked through the pad, through the cover on the gurney. She could smell the blood. Mrs. Semple’s concerned look told her that something was terribly wrong.

“Isabella call,” Mrs. Semple told her. “She say she talking to you on the phone. Suddenly you not there anymore. So, I go up to the apartment and . . . These nice young men take you to the hospital. I call Isabella.”

“The war is over,” Hanna said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Semple replied, “good news.”

The news from the doctor who saw Hanna at the hospital was not.

“I have some concerns,” he said after Hanna explained that, yes, she had these irregular bleedings, but nothing this bad before.

“I thought it was just part of the change,” she said, aware of the defensive tone in her voice. She should have known.

“I’m sending you to a women’s specialist,” he said without a great deal of emotion. He scribbled the information down on a pad.

When Isabella called, frantic, saying she was on her way home, Hanna told her she had simply fainted, overwhelmed that finally, this terrible war was over.

 

 

I
n November, as she did each year, Hanna traveled from New York to the farm to celebrate Thanksgiving with Käthe, Hans, and the family. Isabella would meet her there. She’d set up an appointment to see the specialist, but she’d decided it could wait until after Thanksgiving. She didn’t want to worry anyone.

On Wednesday evening, the day of her arrival, Hanna helped Käthe get the good china and crystal out in preparation for dinner the following day. The house had been filled with activity earlier in the afternoon, Käthe’s daughters buzzing about the kitchen. They’d all be back for Thanksgiving dinner. The two out-of-state girls and their families would be arriving later that night.

After helping with pies, Isabella had gone off to visit the Fletchers. She’d been writing Andrew Fletcher since he’d enlisted, and Hanna guessed there would be talk of marriage when he returned. The girl was just eighteen. Hanna hoped they would wait until she finished college.

“A letter arrived for you this week,” Käthe said. She’d already told Hanna on the drive from the train station that there was a letter for her from Frederick’s daughter-in-law, Anna Schmid. It had come shortly after Käthe received a letter herself, Anna writing of the loss of their two sons in the war.

“Yes, from Anna?” Hanna asked, perplexed. Käthe stood on a stool, handing dinner plates down to her. Hanna assumed Anna’s letter contained the same sad news as Käthe’s, and she was in no hurry to read it. “You said it was up on my bed. Didn’t you?”

“A second letter. This one from Switzerland.” Käthe’s reply came with the intonation of a question. “I put them both on your bed upstairs.”

Hans had taken her bag up earlier. Had Isabella been upstairs? Hanna set the dishes on the kitchen table, rushed up to her room, and hurried to the bed. She picked up the letters propped against the pillow. The first was from Anna, and beneath it—a letter from Johann Keller.

Hanna stared down at her own name, written in his distinct script. She felt light-headed. Her chest constricted. She sat on the bed, rearranging the letters in her hands, shuffling them like a twocard deck. She placed Anna’s letter on top, and then, slowly, she opened it.

Hanna knew that again Germany would have to rebuild itself, that many young men had been lost. She was barely encouraged by the fact that the painting had survived. She set the letter aside and picked up the one from Johann. Again she studied the outside of the envelope. The return address was the same he had used in Basel on the letter she’d received over five years ago. Much in her life had changed since then. She opened the letter.

Hanna returned the letter to the envelope, stood, and slipped it into her pocket.

 

 

T
he morning after Thanksgiving, Hanna sat with Käthe, drinking coffee, eating leftover pie for breakfast. Hans had already gone out, along with young Herman, who had returned home safely from Europe. Everyone else was still sleeping. They talked about the end of the war, about the family losses in Germany. Hanna felt exhausted, as if she had fought this war herself. She thought about young Andrew Fletcher, grateful that he, too, had survived, unlike many of the young men who had gone off to war.

“I hope Isabella and Andrew will wait,” Hanna said. “She’s too young.”

“She’s in love,” Käthe said with a quiet laugh.

“Sometimes love must wait,” Hanna said.

Morning light played in a soft pattern along the wall, creating a quiet, muted melody. Hanna gazed out the window. When she turned, she could see Käthe’s eyes were on her. Hanna got up to refill the coffee. She sat down.

“The letters from this man in Switzerland?” Käthe asked.

“A man I knew . . . after . . . before . . . ” Hanna stumbled over her words. “Before I came to America.”

“You deserve some happiness,” Käthe said, looking directly into Hanna’s eyes. Her sister had guessed that she and Johann were lovers, Hanna realized. Perhaps that was all Käthe needed to know.

“I have known much happiness,” Hanna said. “Our childhood in Bavaria before Mother died, the life I lived with Moses in Munich, being witness to such wonderful creativity in Germany, being so close to that, knowing the artists, and the many places we visited, the beautiful art we discovered. Willy, sweet Willy, and my precious Isabella. I have known happiness, dear Käthe.”

Footsteps upstairs, a flush of the toilet, the shower running, told them the others were stirring.

“Hanna,” Käthe said. She placed her hand over her sister’s. “You’ve lost weight.”

“This rationing,” Hanna said lightly.

“You are not well,” Käthe replied.

Hanna said nothing.

“You’ve seen a doctor?”

“Yes. I have an appointment with a specialist in New York City.”

“Does Isabella know?” Käthe asked.

“I’ll wait. I have to see the doctor first. There’s nothing to tell her yet. No need to worry her now.” Hanna heard small footsteps coming down the steps, high-pitched grandchildren’s voices.

“Sounds like the little ones are headed down,” Käthe said with a half smile as she stood.

Hanna reached for her. “He must never know,” she said, lowering her voice. “Johann must never know where Isabella and I are. Please.”

Käthe nodded.

 

 

“
I
f there are things you need to get in order,” the doctor advised, “I suggest you do them soon.”

“How long?” Hanna asked.

“Six months . . . maybe a year.”

Hanna took a cab home. She sat in her kitchen, looking around the small apartment. Everything was neat and tidy. The mismatched pots and pans Käthe had given them when they moved to the city were put away in the drawers and under the stove. The china service for four—though she needed only two—was carefully stacked in the cupboards. Three canisters with sugar, flour, and coffee sat on the counter. She stood and walked into the living room. There were no pictures on the walls. Hanna went to the Metropolitan when she wanted to see paintings. There were no books on the tables; she borrowed from the library when she wanted to read. She moved slowly into the bedroom and sat on the bed. The closet was tiny; she had few clothes. The doctor said she must get things in order, and Hanna realized how little she had to get in order. She pulled pen and paper out of the bottom drawer of her nightstand, returned to the kitchen table, and wrote:

She wrote up the list, remembering clearly every detail of the four small pieces of art. She tucked it inside the letter and sealed the envelope. She would mail it when she went to the farm for Christmas.

 

 

H
anna knew she was dying, yet her daughter wrote as if her mother still had a whole life ahead of her. If Isabella had noticed her declining health over the Thanksgiving holidays, she’d given no hint of this in her letters, which were always cheerful. No need to worry her daughter now. She would tell her later, after the holidays.

She and Isabella had been talking openly about the Kandinsky painting, and wrote about going to Bavaria to reclaim it. But Hanna knew, even if she were well, it would be difficult traveling to Germany. There had been so much destruction. She didn’t want to see this. She didn’t want Isabella to see this.

The day after Christmas at Käthe’s, Isabella said to Hanna, “I would like to go, Mother. We will go together to the farm in Bavaria to reclaim the Kandinsky painting, then to Munich.”