The Woman Who Heard Color (19 page)

Hanna woke the next morning, thinking of Johann, eager to see him again, wondering how she could bear waiting until evening. The day moved slowly as she presented herself one reason, then another, to justify her actions. At the beginning she was vulnerable, lonely, and concerned for Willy. She needed comfort, then someone with whom to share her joy in Willy’s recovery. Now the thought of Johann made her hands warm, her head light, her pulse quicken. By late afternoon, all attempts at defending this friendship had broken down, because Hanna knew it had become more than mere friendship. She was behaving like a foolish, silly, lovesick girl. She was a woman of forty-two, a married woman at that, and yet she was acting like a smitten adolescent.

She loved Moses, but if there had ever been this excitement about it, she did not recall. He was a good father, a good husband, but he had never loved her as he had loved Helene. She had been his one perfect love and perhaps in life we are allowed but one. These feelings for Johann Keller could not be denied; perhaps they were meant to meet. Unable to dismiss these growing emotions, Hanna pushed aside her good judgment and went to him again.

That evening, without any warning, he placed his finger under her chin, tilted her face to his, and kissed her. She did not resist. She could not deny that she had participated fully in this unexpected kiss.

I must stop here,
she told herself. But she knew she had already gone too far. She returned to her own cabin, but the following evening when he invited her to come to his cabin, she did.

She was discreet, waiting each evening until Willy was asleep before she went to him. When she told Sasha she was stepping out for some fresh air, the woman said, “Yes, Frau Fleischmann,” and nothing more. Even if she were aware, Hanna trusted that Sasha would never betray her. Yet Hanna would not have thought herself capable of betraying Moses, and here she was, going willingly, gladly, happily, to a man who was not her husband.

“What are we to do?” she asked one evening as he held her in his arms after they made love, both fully aware this journey was about to end. She would soon return to her own cabin as she did every night, and they would have but one more together.

“Could you give up your life in Munich?” Johann asked.

She knew she could not leave her husband. She knew she could not leave her son, or take him away from Moses.

“Could you?” she asked. “Give up your life?”

“Oh, Hanna darling, why could we not have met at a different time?”

“It must end here,” she told him.

“Yes,” he replied softly, pulling her closer.

They agreed that when they arrived in Europe the affair must end.

 

 

“
H
ow I have missed you both!” Moses exclaimed when he met their train at the station in Munich. He hugged his son and then took Hanna into his arms. Though Moses was always affectionate with Willy, he seldom displayed feelings for his wife in public.

“I was very sick on the boat,” the boy told his father.

Moses shot Hanna, then Sasha, a concerned look. Sasha had been extremely quiet on the train ride home.

“He’s fine now,” Hanna reassured her husband. “Though he did give me quite a scare. It was a difficult crossing. He’s fine. We’re both fine.” She glanced at Sasha as if to say,
It’s over. We’re home now.

“I’m so happy to have you back safely again,” Moses said.

Seeing Moses, hearing the comfort of his voice, stirred Hanna once more, and she realized how fortunate she was to have him in her life, what a good and kind man he was. She felt great shame over what had happened on the boat from America. She would remove any trace of Johann Keller from her mind and heart.

Her body was less cooperative. Hanna was overcome with fatigue. At first she thought it was the onset of the flu, a virus she had picked up on her crossing but had kept dormant, truly believing as a mother she could quiet a bodily invasion to remain strong to tend to her poor Willy.

When Moses came to her the night following her arrival home, she was too exhausted to respond to his affection and he was content to hold her in his arms as she fell into a fitful sleep.

The following morning at breakfast, he asked, “Are you ill, Hanna?”

“Just very tired,” she replied. “It was a long journey.”

He did not come to her again, and she knew he was waiting for her. But she was so very tired, and very ashamed.

The next week when she noticed the tenderness in her breasts, and then the following when she missed her monthly bleeding, Hanna knew she was with child. She was a married woman, carrying a child that was not her husband’s.

The following night she went to Moses.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

“I was born in Munich in 1927,” Isabella informed Lauren, who did the math quickly in her head. Isabella Fletcher was eighty-two. For a woman her age she seemed very agile in both body and mind. Lauren was about to offer a compliment, when Isabella said, “I’m told I was eager to come into this world, as I arrived several weeks early—a tiny wrinkled red little thing, with a mop of black hair, and dark blue eyes, as my mother described me. But within weeks, my skin lightened to a translucent ivory, and that dark fuzz was replaced with pale blond curls. My eyes, which the doctor said would darken, turned an even softer blue. Papa used to tease me—saying he would have loved me no matter what, but he was quite delighted that I turned out to be a true beauty.” Mrs. Fletcher gave her head a modest little shake. “Oh, dear, Ms. O’Farrell, I do apologize. For a young woman perhaps this is near impossible to imagine.”

“Not at all.” It struck Lauren that even at eighty-two, Isabella was an attractive woman; when she was young, she would have been stunning. “You are still a beautiful woman,” she added, hoping Isabella didn’t find this to be patronizing.

“Thank you,” Isabella replied with a nod. “It’s not as easy keeping things up as it used to be.” She laughed lightly.

Lauren smiled. She was definitely caught up in the story and she’d enjoyed speaking with Mrs. Fletcher about the art in Germany and throughout Europe, but they were moving very slowly toward the reason she was here. In fact, now she wasn’t even sure why she was here. Learning more about Hanna Schmid Fleischmann’s involvement with the Nazis’ purge of art was her original intention, but now Isabella Fletcher had introduced a whole new aspect to Lauren’s project—the Kandinsky
Composition
. Lauren wasn’t sure why Isabella was being so open, but she didn’t want to say or do anything to discourage her.

As they sat, Lauren was turning around in her mind the new facts that Isabella Fletcher had revealed, placing them beside what she already knew, attempting to see how they all fit together. According to Isabella, Kandinsky’s
Composition II
had been purchased about 1911, shortly after it was created in the early part of the century. It had been Willy Fleischmann’s favorite, as well as one of Hanna’s favorites, and the woman had an affinity with the artist Kandinsky because they shared this affliction of synesthesia. Or perhaps it was a gift, considering how both of them made their living. But Mrs. Fletcher had said the family purchased the painting twice. Lauren wanted to know when and how that had happened. Had they purchased it a second time from the man in Berlin who owned the painting during the war? Lauren couldn’t remember his name. How did
Composition II
get from the Fleischmann collection in Munich to the family in Berlin in the first place?
If
it was true that Moses and Hanna Fleischmann were the original owners.

“Ms. O’Farrell, would you like more tea?” Isabella rose.

“Yes, please,” Lauren said, sensing that as long as Mrs. Fletcher kept filling the teapot, she’d keep talking. After the spilled tea incident, she was especially grateful for this offer. But with all this tea drinking, she really needed to use the restroom.

She glanced toward the hallway and asked, “May I use the powder room?”

“Second door on the right.” Isabella motioned with her head as she carried the tray to the kitchen.

Lauren stood, gave her shoulders a little shake to release some of the tension and stiffness, and then grabbed her bag. She needed to call Patrick again. She’d glanced repeatedly in her bag and still hadn’t received a text. If she didn’t hear from him soon she’d have to leave.

She started toward the hall, but then stopped, gazing up at what appeared to be a Chagall. Quickly, she pulled her BlackBerry from her bag and snapped a picture and then, walking slowly toward the hall, she took a photo of a small Picasso drawing. Perhaps an original? Then another—the Gabriele Münter—a village scene that was very similar in style to the Kandinsky paintings from the early part of the twentieth century when the two artists were working together. Finally a Monet, one of his water lilies. How many of those had the artist painted? Lauren guessed this one was a copy.

 

 

I
sabella used the half bath in the laundry room off the kitchen, deposited the wet napkins in the hamper, then walked slowly back to the stove, lifted the teapot, filled it with fresh water, and returned it to the burner. Then she sat at the table, waiting for the pot to whistle, questioning herself as to the wisdom of having invited this young woman into her home.

When Lauren O’Farrell had phoned this morning, Isabella recognized the name from an article she’d read a year or so ago. After the call, she’d found the clipping in a drawer in the bedroom and concluded then that the woman had come to inquire about the Kandinsky, somehow having become aware of its survival, knowing it was a painting that disappeared during the war. Did she think Isabella had obtained it illegally? Was this the reason for her initial lie as to why she wished to speak with Isabella?

This was something she needed to clear up—that she was the rightful owner of the Kandinsky. In deciding to meet with the young woman, Isabella had reasoned that it might be beneficial to share this information with a knowledgeable person, particularly one whose profession involved verifying ownership of art whose history had intersected with the Nazis’ reign in Germany.

But as soon as Isabella mentioned the Kandinsky, she could see from Lauren’s guarded reaction that her call was motivated by more than a search for a missing piece of art. Isabella had been warned many years ago that questions might arise about what her mother had done in Germany before World War II, and she had lived in fear of this—that someone would come to her with questions about Hanna Fleischmann. But then, nothing—no questions, no inquiries, no accusations. And even Lauren O’Farrell had yet to throw out any allegations. But, from the way the young woman sat so politely, so attentively, prodding Isabella to open up, to speak of her family, Isabella guessed that she was searching, not for a specific painting but for information to condemn Hanna. And this was why Isabella was speaking of memories she had pushed back in her mind for many years. She wanted Lauren to know what a beautiful, lovely, talented woman her mother had been, how much she loved her children. She wanted to control this conversation, to offer her side of the story—Hanna’s side. Though in truth, because of her mother’s reluctance to speak of many things, there were parts of her life that Isabella knew little about. Did this young woman know more about Hanna than her own daughter? And did Ms. O’Farrell think that Isabella didn’t know what she was up to? She was snooping about right now. Did she think Isabella wasn’t aware of this?

Should she send her home? But she knew she’d already said too much, and now she must continue. If Lauren O’Farrell even suggested that her mother had done anything dishonorable, Isabella would defend her. If these accusations were made later, after Isabella’s demise, no one would remain to stand up for Hanna.

Isabella stood and opened the drawer where she kept the table linen and lifted out two fresh napkins.

 

 

L
auren could hear Mrs. Fletcher shuffling around in the kitchen. Water running. Filling up the tea kettle. She stepped out of the living room and started down the hall toward the bathroom, glancing into the first door to the right to see an impressive dining suite with large upholstered chairs. Windows ran along the far wall, curtains drawn. A lush Oriental rug in dark reds and golds spread over the hardwood floor. Her eyes moved along the wall to the left, noting several small pictures. She stepped in and quickly snapped a photo of what looked like a Matisse, then another Chagall, then a simple line drawing that she was certain was a Picasso. Three large pictures hung above a buffet on the wall opposite the windows, all obviously prints, not paintings, all expensively framed under glass. A Van Gogh. A Klimt. A Cézanne. Each a floral motif in the artist’s distinct style. None of them German, but artists who would have been rejected by the Reich’s Commission of Propaganda and Public Enlightenment. All degenerate. As she stepped back, she noticed a vague rectangular shape, a darker tone than the rest of the wall. As if something else, something quite large, had at one time been there. A large rectangle, unfaded by light. Could a painting have once hung in this very spot? Kandinsky’s
Composition
?

She continued down the hall into the small powder room. Her eyes darted along the walls, more paintings and prints. She easily identified a Franz Marc—a colorful composition of cats. Obviously an Isabella Fletcher favorite. And an Alexej Jawlensky, this one a drawing of a face with simple lines. Perhaps an original. She looked closely. Yes, it appeared to be authentic. Quickly, she took several pictures.

After using the bathroom, Lauren washed her hands with a delicious-smelling vanilla soap, dried them on a thick, lush, bright yellow towel, and then called Patrick, who answered right away and told her he was just about to send a text. He’d been in a conference for the past hour.