The Woman Who Heard Color (16 page)

I will hear from you again,
Hanna thought as she watched him disappear into the crowd on Theatinerstrasse. He was not an artist, but he had an almost frightening determination about him. Then she felt a chill, as if the air in the room had cooled, and it was she who shivered now.

Hanna walked back into the second gallery and asked Berta to fetch her a cup of tea to warm herself. She sat, unable to get the image of this man out of her mind, unable to shake the feelings of impending doom that he had left behind.

He had not told Hanna his name. He did not introduce himself. But the drawings were all signed—A. Hitler.

CHAPTER TWELVE

 

“Picasso, Cézanne, Matisse, Chagall, Klimt, Schiele, Van Gogh, Kandinsky, Münter, Jawlensky,” Isabella said. “Yes, paintings by all of these artists hung in the gallery and in our home in Munich.” She closed her eyes, and Lauren imagined the old woman was seeing these paintings along the hallway, in the music room and parlor, rooms she had described to Lauren with a clear and detailed memory.

“Your mother and father knew these artists, but did
you
know any of them personally?” Lauren asked.

“Many of these artists were before my time, but there were others I met, at the gallery, as guests in our home. Making acquaintance with one of these artists back then didn’t seem like an event—it was just what my parents did. I never met Wassily Kandinsky, but I do remember meeting Ms. Münter, who was Kandinsky’s girlfriend—his mistress, some might say, as he was married when they took up with one another. She was friendly with my mother, and I do have a vague recollection of her. I guess the memory sticks because most of the artists back then were men. A few women, but not many.

“The Fleischmann Gallery was particularly known for exhibitions of a group of artists founded by Kandinsky and Franz Marc. The Swiss artist Paul Klee later joined them. Their name originally came from the name of an almanac edited by Kandinsky and Marc.
Der Blaue Reiter.
”

“The Blue Rider,” Lauren translated.

“Yes, both Kandinsky and Franz Marc incorporated horses, sometimes men riding horses, into their work. And they both seemed to favor the color blue.”

Lauren thought of the lovely colors used by both artists, Wassily Kandinsky and Franz Marc. Blues and yellows, pure and bright, presented in the most unusual ways. Animals in tones never found in nature. Exciting shapes on canvas, often without any correlation to true, real images. She glanced again at the painting of the blue horses, and then envisioned the lively colors and mysterious forms of Kandinsky’s
Composition II
.

“What was happening in Germany was rather progressive,” Lauren said. “So many associate these new art movements with France—you know the Impressionists and Postimpressionists. Few are aware of what was taking place artistically in Germany during the early part of the twentieth century.”

“How true, how true,” Isabella said, shaking her head, but smiling at the same time. “Yes, it was very progressive. My mother felt privileged to be a witness to this creativity and originality. A participant, in a sense, really. As you know, those who are dealing art can have an enormous influence, as can collectors and patrons, those who support these artists.”

“Without this support, many of these artists would have been unable to continue their work,” Lauren said, thinking how exciting it would have been for both Hanna and Moses to be part of this history. She wondered if they realized how influential these artists would become.

Being a dealer or patron of contemporary art was always a bit of a gamble.

“At the same time,” Mrs. Fletcher told her, “a group of equally innovative artists, including Fritz Bleyl, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Erich Heckel, and Karl Schmidt-Rottluff, known as
Die Brücke
, had formed in Dresden, then moved on to Berlin.”

“The Bridge,” Lauren said, her eyes resting on a painting of a street scene, houses in golds, reds, and greens, a boxy composition that had seemed familiar, though earlier she was unable to identify the artist. Now she realized it was a Schmidt-Rottluff. She caught Isabella’s eye. The woman’s chin, as well as her lips, lifted in a subtle gesture of respect and acknowledgment.

It was exciting to speak with someone who had such an understanding of German art during this period, though Lauren was aware that Isabella Fletcher hadn’t even been born at the time. Had she learned this from her mother or father? Had her mother taken her by the hand, approached the various paintings in the gallery, in the home, and explained to the child who each artist was, which particular circle of artists he was associated with? Lauren smiled at the thought.

Isabella appeared to be enjoying this conversation, too, as if she appreciated Lauren’s knowledge of a time that many had forgotten as a black cloud began to gather over Germany.

Then, as if this cloud had descended over the room in which the two women sat, Isabella Fletcher’s face suddenly shifted, taking on a grave pallor. She held her hands in her lap, one upon the other, shuffling restlessly as if suddenly, she did not want to continue.

Lauren sat quietly, attempting to gather some careful words to keep the conversation flowing, when Mrs. Fletcher said, “Then everything changed. When the war started.”

“In the late thirties,” Lauren said.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Isabella answered, a touch of anger in her tone as if she were scolding a naughty child. “Why is it you young people think there was just one war?”

“You’re talking about the First World War.” Lauren was offended that Mrs. Fletcher thought she had so little understanding of world history. Given the way the old woman was jumping around without regard to chronology, anyone might have trouble following her story.

“Yes, I’m speaking of what we called the Great War.” Isabella closed her eyes briefly, as if attempting to rid her mind of the horrors. “Millions of young soldiers died, almost two million of them German. I had two uncles—my mother’s brothers Karl and Peter—whom I never even met. They both died in the war. Helene, my father’s older daughter, lost her son, Little Jakob. I never even knew him. He was barely nineteen, a beautiful young man, from photos I remember—in his uniform, so dashing. Jakob wanted to be an airplane pilot, lured by the romance of it all. He would never fly, never have the opportunity for that and so much more that should have been his.” Isabella’s eyes met Lauren’s. “You wonder how something that happened years before I was born could have had such a profound effect on my life.”

Lauren understood that the events during and after the First World War, particularly in Germany, had much to do with the origins of the second. And she knew many young Jewish men, such as Jakob Kaufmann, had given their lives for their country in the Great War.

“Honestly,” Isabella said, “many in Germany would claim it was just one long, uninterrupted war. Life wasn’t much better for many Germans between the two wars. Even when the fighting was over in November of 1918, when Germany accepted the armistice, the suffering went on.” Her tone was bitter. “Blockades set up during the war remained, starving much of the population. People were forced to eat pinecones and nettles and flour made from chestnuts.”

Lauren sat without words, waiting for Isabella to continue, again fingering the silk edge of the throw pillow.

“Oh, yes, life was unkind to so many Germans,” Mrs. Fletcher said with a sigh. “My parents were wealthy enough that they weathered the storm, but there were others who barely got by. My mother’s younger sister, Leni, and her husband, Uncle Kurt, would have starved if they and their children had not moved in with my parents for a while. Leni was my mother’s younger sister. She had a stepsister, Dora, whom she couldn’t stand. She married a Nazi.”

Lauren realized how many had been caught up in these times, young men sent off to war, never to return, people dying of starvation. Everyone in Germany had been affected in some way, even the wealthy.

“I suppose I’m boring you with this family history,” Isabella said. “Most of it I know only from stories, many I overheard from the grown-ups when I was a child. Everyone said I looked just like Leni, which I always took as a compliment, as she was stunning. She was the blonde in the family. The most beautiful, but I think there was always some jealousy, at least from what Aunt Katie said, because Leni didn’t make as favorable a marriage as her sisters. She married a factory worker in Munich—well, actually no, I think they married in Weitnau, then came to Munich to work. This was very typical back then—farmworkers coming to the city for factory jobs. Munich in the years before the war had grown to a large metropolis of over half a million citizens and much of the middle class was made up of rural folks like Leni and her husband. The pay was good, well, before the war, before the terrible inflation . . .” Isabella emitted a feeble laugh of resignation. “Excuse me again, Ms. O’Farrell. I do sound like a very old lady, carrying on like this.”

“Please,” Lauren said, “I’d like to know more. This history of your family as well as your knowledge of Germany’s history, it’s sad, but fascinating. I find it very interesting, and it is too important to forget.”

“Yes,” Isabella replied, “it is. I remember my aunt used to go on and on, talking about this family member or that one, jumping from here to there, talking about people I never met. But sometimes I wish I had listened better. So much family history is lost just because no one listens. It is shameful when such history is lost. Or when it’s never even told.”

Lauren nodded in agreement, thinking of how little she’d known of her father’s early life when she herself was a child. How she had been hesitant to ask, seeing even in her innocence how reluctant he was to share the details of his childhood. She knew now that her father had grown up in London, that he’d come to America to teach at UC Berkeley in the sixties. He and Lauren’s mother met through friends, though she knew very little about that. Her father, Felix Rosenthal II, taught chemistry; her mother was an artist. An odd match, she always thought. Her father spoke with a British accent, which made everything he said sound intellectual and important, though he spoke little of things that mattered. Lauren’s mother, Ruth Goldman Rosenthal, was an artist, yet during the time she was raising her children—Lauren and her brother, Aaron—she seldom painted.

“This all happened,” Isabella said quietly, twisting the ring on her finger, “before I was born. But you hear stories. You know how sometimes you look back on your life, at things that happened or things you might have heard as a child, and in retrospect they suddenly make sense?” Isabella shook her head and her thin lips slowly curved into a half smile. “Well, maybe you’re too young yet.”

“No, I do understand,” Lauren replied. “There are times when you can look at things more objectively from a distance.”

Isabella said no more, as if this sudden openness and outpouring had emptied her of words. Her eyes moved along the wall, again settling on the window, and then she glanced thoughtfully down at the tea tray. For a second Lauren thought she was going to pick it up, stand, and announce they were finished. She searched desperately in her mind, trying to come up with the right observation or question, and finally said, “How did all this—the events and aftermath of the first war—affect business at the gallery?” She hoped she didn’t sound insensitive, that her interest would provide a gentle nudge for Isabella to continue.

After several moments the old woman replied, “During the war, business was practically nonexistent.” She took in a deep breath, and paused. “Many young artists were called up to fight. Young Franz Marc was killed in battle.” She motioned toward the painting of the plump blue horses. “Even for those who didn’t go to war, supplies were difficult to find. And many of the foreign artists working in Germany were forced to flee. Suddenly, these men had become enemies. Wassily Kandinsky, though he’d lived in Germany off-and-on for almost fifteen years, was given but twenty-four hours to remove himself when Russia became involved in the conflict.” Again she stopped before going on. “The aftermath of the war brought a whole new era of creativity—Max Beckman, Otto Dix, men who had served and come back home. Some of it is very gory, very depressing. But it certainly expressed a darkness, a despair, a sense of loss that had fallen all over Germany after the war.” Isabella’s eyes rested on the small etching of the distorted, injured soldiers.

“You asked if any of these are originals,” she said. “Yes, a few. I know it may seem strange but the etching by Otto Dix was a gift from Andrew. He found it here in New York at a private gallery and bought it for me as an anniversary gift. A painting of war as a gift of love.” She shook her head and a quiet laugh escaped. “A form of self-expression.” She looked directly at Lauren. “That’s very important, you know, that an artist be free to express his or her inner feelings.”

“Yes,” Lauren agreed, “free artistic expression is essential for creativity.”

“A few of the others are originals, none of the paintings, but a few etchings and drawings.” Again Mrs. Fletcher smoothed her skirt with a nervous hand. “And yes, there is documentation to verify ownership.” There was a little snip at the end of the sentence, Mrs. Fletcher telling Lauren she could not challenge the ownership of any of these.

“After the Great War, the First World War,” Mrs. Fletcher continued, “Germany was a political and economic mess, even an emotional mess you might say. The citizens of Germany felt as if they had been betrayed by their own leaders who signed the hated armistice.
Stabbed in the back
was the saying.” The woman gave off a little shudder, as if she could feel it, a physical rather than metaphorical sensation. “You’ve heard that phrase, Ms. O’Farrell?”

She nodded.

“Germans thought they were winning the war, if you can believe that, but then with the treaty they were forced to admit guilt, take responsibility for damages. They were saddled with enormous reparation payments and forbidden to rebuild the military. Territories and colonies were taken away—divvied up by the victors. A republic was formed, but many Germans were not ready to give up their kings and monarchs. Women were given the right to vote. Women in Germany gained the right to vote before American women.”