The Woman Who Heard Color (27 page)

Herr Berger showed Hanna to a private bedroom and said that supper would be served at 8:30. She was to be prompt. Dress was informal.

“Perhaps you’d like a walk about the grounds before supper,” he offered.

Thinking it might help rid her of the tension, Hanna said, “
Danke.
That would be very nice.”

She asked for a few moments and the young man left. She studied the room—a bed, dresser with water pitcher and mirror. Several small paintings hung on the walls, watercolors of country scenes. She stepped closer and noticed the signature.
A. Hitler.

Shortly, Herr Berger knocked on the door and asked if she was ready for a walk.

Hanna stepped out of the room and was led down the hall and out the back door. As Herr Berger escorted her about the grounds, she thought of how much Willy would love this setting, and it struck her that Herr Berger was about the same age as her son. Once more she was grateful that her children had escaped, even if she never saw them again. Hitler had taken the best of the youth, and with his propaganda had convinced them that he was the only hope for Germany, to revive the economy, to return the nation once more to world power.

The air was fresh and clean and reminded Hanna so much of the farm where she grew up—the beautiful mountain pastures and lush green meadows with the tranquil resonance of home, the imposing majestic Alps that could still send a wonderful shiver through her very core. Oh, what a lovely place, our Bavaria, she thought. And this, Hitler could not change. Memories of her childhood flooded back, then her trip to Munich, becoming part of the Fleischmann family, her lovely Helene, Moses, Young Helene and Jakob, Little Jakob. Is this how it is just before one’s life is to end? she wondered. This stream of places and people from one’s past?

Two large Alsatians, enclosed within a fenced area, barked and nipped at each other playfully. They looked very familiar, as Hitler was often photographed with his beloved pets. Hanna stopped and they came up to the gate, slapping their tails in a friendly greeting. Again she thought of her family home in Bavaria, the animals both Willy and Isabella loved. She wondered if her children would ever again visit their uncle Frederick in the country.

“Frau Fleischmann,” her young escort interrupted her thoughts, “perhaps you wish to return to your room. Dinner will be served in half an hour.”

Hanna returned to her room and combed through her hair, freshened her face with a quick dab of lipstick and rouge as if she were off to a social affair. She used the bathroom down the hall, returned to her room, and waited for a knock.

She was escorted to a dining room and left alone. The room was decorated in quaint Bavarian-style mountain furnishings. Hanna stood, wondering what she was to do. She glanced around, studying the paintings on the walls, one a pastoral setting and another a profile of Hitler in his military uniform.

As she stared at the portrait, the man himself walked in, and the first thing she thought was how different he looked and yet how very little he had changed since he came those many years ago to the gallery. At the time, a young artist, stiff and proud, and determined. Now older, the hair shorter, combed in a slightly different fashion, the mustache added since that day. He wore not the military uniform he was most often photographed wearing, and in the portrait on the wall, but the casual dress of the country—short pants, heavy stockings, and gray woolen jacket.
Like my father, my brothers,
Hanna thought. So intent on showing that he was one of them. His eyes, still the same—very pale blue. Deep, but empty. The tone as intense as anything she had ever heard.

“Frau Fleischmann,” he said, “a pleasure.” His voice sounded sincere, accommodating, another gentleman, like the young man he had so graciously sent to accompany her from Munich.

Hanna lowered her head, feeling fear, discomfort, incredulity, and then shame that she could offer this gesture of respect to such a man.

When she looked up, she sensed that he did not recognize her, and she felt some of the tension release itself from her body.

He invited her to sit. It appeared there would be no others partaking of the meal, which quickly reinstated Hanna’s discomfort. A familiar scent, one from long ago, entered her nostrils. Soap and sweat, now tinged with a slight smell of country leather.

A pretty young blonde, in local dress and apron, presented them each with a bowl of soup, a basket of hearty brown Bavarian bread. The Führer passed the bread as if they were a little family of two sitting down for supper. They ate, at first without words. Her hand shook as she brought the soup to her mouth, as she broke off a small piece of bread. She could barely swallow.

“You find the accommodations agreeable?” he asked.

“Yes”—she started to say Herr Hitler, but then realized she didn’t even know what to call him.

“I find it a relaxing atmosphere,” he said, “to get away, to pursue pleasures away from my duties of caring for my people and my country.”

A lump of bread caught in her throat. How could he speak such words?
Caring for my people?
She swallowed it down with a drink of water.

“You have children?” he asked.

“A son and daughter.”

“Grandchildren?”

“Not yet.” She knew this was Hitler’s entire view of women—propagators of the Aryan race. And Hanna realized he saw her as an older woman, and was treating her with respect as he would his elderly aunt. He was just a few years younger than Hanna but regarded her as much older, which she took as both an insult and a great fortune for her under the circumstances. It was known that romantically Hitler favored younger women who would not dare to challenge his intellect. Respect for women and motherhood was deeply rooted in party propaganda, but what would he think if he knew Hanna had produced two children with a Jewish father, one by deception, one who would not fit Hitler’s concept of a human being in any way.

“My condolences on your husband’s passing.”

A heat passed through her—not fear, Hanna realized, but indignation and anger. How dared he speak of her husband. This man was not worthy to polish her husband’s shoes. Was he merely informing her that he knew she was the wife of Moses Fleischmann, the Jew? Yet, he now treated her with kindness. Was this the charm so many spoke of? Hanna saw it as nothing more than masterful manipulation and despicable duplicity. She imagined Hitler would say whatever necessary to draw one in, to gain a person’s trust or to secure for himself whatever it was he wanted from them. But what did he want from Hanna? She said nothing in response, and prayed he would ask no more about her children.

They continued eating in silence, and then the young woman removed the bowls and brought in two plates with sausage, potatoes, and vegetables for Hanna, nothing but an enormous mound of potatoes for the Führer. Hanna waited. He nodded for her to continue. She ate several bites, and then realized she did not have the stomach to eat anything more. Her insides were rumbling and turning and tossing, and she felt that she might not be able to hold it down.

After some time, the young woman returned and removed Hanna’s plate. Hitler asked that she wrap the remainder and save it for the dogs. Ah, yes, Hanna thought, Hitler, the animal lover.

The woman soon came back with dessert—slices of a Viennese torte, layered with fruit and cream, topped with an enormous mound of whipped cream for the Führer, a reasonable-sized dollop for Hanna.

He ate with great relish, wiping a lathering of the cream from his face. He asked if she’d like coffee, and remembering his refusal the day he came to the gallery, she said, “No, thank you.”

The young woman cleared the table.

“I’ve been impressed with your selection for the German Art Museum,” he said, staring directly at Hanna. His blue eyes were filled with approval, though if he knew what she really thought ofof the paintings, other than the sacrificial Franz von Stuck, it would surely turn to condemnation.

“Thank you,” she managed to say.

“You were born in Bavaria?” he asked.

“In the Allgäu on a dairy farm.”

He nodded affably. “Your father is a man of the land.”

“Yes, a farmer.”

“You learned of art from your husband?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, fearing she was treading on shaky ground. Was he attempting to get her to deny she had been married to a Jew when he obviously knew? Perhaps he wished Hanna to declare that she had been converted to his cause, that with the loss of her husband she was now able to reclaim her Aryan roots.

“We must work together, we Germans,” he started in, “those with knowledge of the true German art, for the art must represent the beauty of our country and people. Above all, the subject matter should be understood. The art must be for the people. The art must represent the true beauty of nature, of that which is real and good. Art must always use the true forms seen in nature. Don’t you agree, Frau Fleischmann?”

Hanna nodded a yes.

“Healthy art must be uplifting, noble, idealistic,” he exclaimed, and held out his arms as if asking her to contribute to this conversation.

“Yes,” she agreed, “art must be noble.”

“There is no value in vile representations by scribblers and canvas scrawlers,” he barked, overcome with emotion now, his eyes fixed on Hanna. She nodded and said nothing, as though she agreed with every word that came out of his mouth.

“Paintings and sculptures created by cultural Neanderthals and mental defectives? This is art?”

Hanna’s back stiffened, fearing he knew about Willy.

The man continued, carrying on in a diatribe that made little sense. He spoke of the contemptibility of “unfinished work,” paintings that distorted the beauty of nature and the German people. He spoke of art that could not be understood by the common man. “Elitist art,” he railed, raising his clenched fist in defiance, “we must rid Germany of this elitist art. Art must be for the people.”

Hanna sat quietly, her shoulders aching, her head throbbing, nodding now and then, as if someone else, someone who agreed with this madman, had entered her body. A sense of shame washed over her, but she could not speak.

He placed his napkin on the table and then said, “It is refreshing to find an art dealer who has an understanding of true German art, a dealer who celebrates the artistic accomplishments of the German people, one who possesses the proper sensitivity for art. How vile the artists who turn the beauty of Germany and its people into garbage, distortions, the foulest representations of life.” Hanna knew he was referring to the very art they had shown at the Fleischmann, the art that now had no place in the museums and galleries. At any moment, she felt he might condemn her for being a traitor to the people and government, or perhaps grind her up and feed her to his dogs.

He rose and walked toward the window. Hanna remained seated, nervously wringing her hands under the table, wondering why she was here.

He looked out. “A beautiful view.”

“Yes,” she said, thinking this was possibly the only thing in which she could find common ground with Hitler—the beauty of Bavaria, the majestic mountains. She realized from the window he could see the country of his birth—Austria.

“We will have a grand opening of the Haus der Kunst in July,” he said. “I would like to invite you as my guest.”

“Danke,”
she said, swallowing what felt like a stone. She didn’t know what else to say.

“In conjunction with the Aryan exhibition,” Hitler continued, “it has been decided to show the art that the Republic—” And here he practically spat out the word
Republic
, as if it were as vile as the art it had endorsed. “All of Germany must see how the Republic wasted the people’s money. This rubbish will show in another exhibition so the people can compare the Aryan art with—” He couldn’t, or chose not to, finish the thought in words, so overcome with irritation. “I wish you a pleasant return to Munich,” he said, and then he swiveled abruptly in military-like fashion and left the room.

Hanna didn’t know what to do. She remained seated for several moments, turning these thoughts over in her head. She had been invited as a guest to Hitler’s art exhibition. And there would also be an exhibition of
entartete kunst
—the very art she had loved, the art that Moses and Hanna had introduced to so many in Munich, in Germany, and throughout the world. Now the Führer was going to put it forth for the people of Germany to ridicule.

After some time she decided she should return to her room. As soon as she stood, the young Herr Berger entered and escorted her down the hall.

“We will return on the seven A.M. train to Munich tomorrow,” he told her as they reached Hanna’s room. “Breakfast will be brought to you at five thirty A.M. I will call on you at six A.M.” He wished that she sleep well and left.

Hanna did not sleep well, thoughts of what had just transpired pushing and spinning and burning inside her. Had she won the Führer’s approval? She had been invited as his guest to attend the grand opening of the German Haus der Deutschen Kunst.

Three days after returning to Munich, Hanna was released from the gallery, though she was given no explanation as to why. She knew it would be but a short time before she would no longer be able to pay the monthly lease on her room. Again, she went out looking for work. She felt every eye was upon her, that someone was watching her every move. Once more she attempted to gather the proper papers to go to her children, though she knew she did not have sufficient funds to do so.

The following week she received an official invitation to be an honored guest at
Tag der Deutschen Kunst
, The Day of German Art, in Munich on July 18, 1937. It was an invitation she knew she could not refuse.

And, strangely, Hanna now realized it was the art itself that had become her greatest obstacle to fleeing Germany.