The Woman Who Heard Color (35 page)

Later that night, in her private moments in the girls’ room, Käthe and Leni now far away, Dora leaving no trace, and Frederick’s young daughters long gone to their own husbands, in the old worn dresser, under a stack of bed linens, Hanna found a small pouch. She loosened the string, and spilled the contents out on the bed. Before her eyes they sparkled with the sounds of ice and snow. Diamonds! Helene’s gift to Hanna. Perhaps she thought this would provide her with an escape.

At the very bottom of the drawer, she found two papers. Hanna picked up the larger and unfolded it. A bill of sale to Helene from Botho von Gamp for Wassily Kandinsky’s
Composition II
! The man had refused to sell it to Hanna, though he was probably aware she had little to offer him. She wondered if he’d come to the realization that the painting might eventually be destroyed or confiscated by the Nazis, and better to rid himself of it now for a price.

And then she read the smaller, a handwritten note from Helene.

Hanna sat on the bed, shaking. She could not weep, as if all her tears had dried.

That night she picked at the stitching along the bottom of her skirt, and in the quiet of this room where she had laughed and argued and dreamed with her sisters, Hanna hid Helene’s gift along the hem. Then she found needle and thread in a small box in the bottom drawer and sewed the bill of sale, Helene’s note tucked inside, into her pocket.

She waited until the middle of the night, then opened her door and tiptoed downstairs, hoping to make her way to the barn. Smelling smoke, she peered around the corner to find her young escort, standing in the hall, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Hanna returned to her room.

Early the next morning, when again she felt they were alone, she asked Frederick to describe the painting.

His eyes blinked nervously. “Hitler,” he whispered, “has brought strength back to Germany, but at what price . . . the sacrifice of treating all justly.” He shook his head. “Oh, little sister, the world will judge us harshly. I do not agree with Hitler’s ways, but this painting . . . Perhaps my ideas of art are much like his. I, too, wish to know what I’m looking at.” He went on to describe the painting. “Bright colors, a horse, or perhaps a giraffe, in the center. Women to one side, but not true forms. They are kneading bread, or perhaps washing the laundry on stones.” Again he shook his head, his eyes still twitching.

“You find it disagreeable?” she asked.

“Quite,” he said with a slow, cautious smile.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely if once more we lived in a world where we could disagree? Where each could choose what he or she finds agreeable?”

Frederick’s smile remained, but it was now filled with sadness and regret.
“Ja,”
was the only word he could find.

Hanna left the farm, never having had the opportunity to go to the barn to examine the canvas left by Helene. But she knew, from her brother’s description, from the bill of sale, that it was
Composition II
, painted by the Russian Wassily Kandinsky.

Back in Berlin she made final preparations for her departure to Switzerland. The night before she was to leave, Hanna carefully removed the lining in each of the two pieces of luggage that would accompany her on her journey. In the larger she inserted the small paintings and drawings that she had rescued from the warehouse. In the smaller bag she placed Helene’s bill of sale for the Kandinsky and her own drawing done years ago at the Academy in Munich. Then, using the professional stitch of the tailor that her stepmother, Gerta, had taught her more than forty years ago, she sewed, concealing them inside the lining. As she stitched, Hanna remembered how unkind she had been to Gerta. She could hear her shrill, childish voice insisting that she did not need her stepmother’s help, that her own mother had taught her to sew. But she could see now that Gerta’s stitches would be undetected if there was any thought that Frau Fleischmann was smuggling art out of the country. Hanna thought of how much she had disliked this woman. She could no longer use the word
hate
, as there was far too much hate in her world now. Hanna said a prayer of thanks for Gerta as she finished.

Carefully she folded her clothes and packed them in her bags, nestling the photograph of Willy and Isabella that Käthe had sent to her from America in this protective softness in the larger bag.

Later that night, unable to sleep, remembering the inventory lists she’d successfully transported in the move from her old hotel and hidden in her room, realizing she couldn’t leave them behind, Hanna rose. If she put the lists inside her bag with her clothing, authorities might question her having this information. Could she hide them along with the art in the lining? She glanced out the window, sensing the sun would soon rise, and feared her time was running out, that a hurried job of ripping and sewing might be easily detected. And adding the bulk of these to the hidden art might call attention to the re-sewed lining. Should she destroy the lists? Yet she felt at least the information regarding the pieces she had hidden in her luggage should be saved.

Carefully she lifted the photograph of her children from her bag and removed the frame. On the back of the picture, in the same abbreviated manner she’d used on her lists, she recorded the inventory information pertaining to the concealed art. She replaced the photograph in the frame and then, as quickly as she could, she tore the lists into tiny pieces, flushing some down the toilet, hiding others in the soil of the potted plants in her elegant room in the Hotel Bellevue.

CHAPTER THIRTY

 

Hanna traveled to Switzerland by train with her young assistant—newly assigned, her fourth—who, along with representatives from the Fischer Gallery, assisted her in setting up the first preview exhibition, which would run for ten days in Zurich. She worked diligently, retreating alone to her room at night. Always she was escorted by her young man, a serious, stern-faced fellow named Helmut, who treated her with the utmost respect. Frau Fleischmann, Hitler’s Curator of the Degenerate.

Hanna had not heard from Johann Keller, and again she attempted to dismiss him from her thoughts—the visions of Johann when they first met on the ship, and then the more mature Herr Keller from their meeting in Berlin. Yet hopeful images kept pushing into her head. She would see him again. Hanna knew that he would come to the auction in Lucerne.

One morning, as she was attending to a well-known collector at the preview in Zurich, she turned to retrieve materials from the office set up for them at this site and there he stood—Herr Johann Keller. He was not alone, but with another gentleman, one of those Hanna recognized from the group she had met in Berlin at Schloss Niederschönhausen.

Her eyes locked for a moment with Johann’s and a fire Hanna feared was coloring every visible part of her body rushed through her. They were not able to speak at this time, but he nodded as if to say,
I will not let this opportunity slip by. I will find you, Hanna.

She slept little that night, anticipating what might happen the next day.

The following morning, he appeared again, this time alone. He walked up to Hanna and said, “Frau Fleischmann, we met in Berlin when I came with representatives from the Basel Museum.”

“Yes, so nice to see you again, Herr Keller,” she replied in her professional dealer’s voice, bearing down on her lip to suppress her smile. “I recall you expressed an interest in one of our Franz Marcs. Please, it is on display over here.”

She escorted him to the painting, and then after some discussion about the piece, they walked together through the entire collection, Hanna feeling strangely giddy despite what she saw as the seriousness of these days and the sale that would take place the following month in Lucerne.

“Oh, Hanna,” he said softly. “I must see you while you are here in Switzerland.”

“I could wish for nothing more,” she whispered. “It will be difficult. Particularly here in Zurich.” She motioned with her head toward the desk where her assistant sat, watching over her like a humorless guardian angel. “Perhaps in Lucerne where there will be more distractions as we prepare for the auction.”

“Arrangements could be made,” he said in a low voice. “It is your wish to go to America to be with your son?”

Hanna stood, her legs growing weak, saying nothing, feeling as if she could no longer maintain this calm, praying she wouldn’t break down into uncontrollable sobs. He did not know that she had lost her precious Willy. This was surely not the time or place to tell him. And he did not know about Isabella. “Yes,” she whispered, the word coming out with a scratchy hoarseness. Her throat felt as if it were covered with gauze.

“I see you’ve found Frau Fleischmann,” a representative from the Fischer Gallery said as he approached.

Johann said, “I look forward to seeing you in Lucerne next month, Frau Fleischmann.”

“Yes, I hope to see you as well as your colleagues from Basel.”

For the remainder of her days in Zurich, the scene played out in her head. She and Johann would go to America to be with their daughter, Isabella. But Hanna could not conjure such images without reminding herself that she had lived in a world of deceit since Johann had come into her life. And now she continued her lies. He didn’t know about Isabella. He did not know that Willy was gone. Hanna pushed away the thought that she was also deceiving herself. Johann still had a wife in Switzerland, and he had not suggested he would go with her to America. But clearly he had told her that he would help her escape. And hadn’t he expressed his love for her when they met in Berlin?

Hanna knew if she and Johann were to have anything between them again, she must tell him the truth.

At the end of May the paintings and sculptures were moved from Zurich to Lucerne where they were scheduled to preview for a full month leading up to the auction at the Grand Hotel National on Lake Lucerne at the end of June. Hanna was set up in an elegant private room at the hotel. Her assistant took an adjoining room. The door between the two rooms was always locked, but she knew he was keeping a close eye on her.

There was less activity during the early days of the preview than she had expected, fewer dealers, collectors, and foreign gallery and museum representatives coming in and out of the Grand Salon at the hotel than anticipated. Some days she did little, yet each evening when she returned to her room she was exhausted. Supper was delivered to her and she retired. Her assistant checked on her each night, asking if there was anything she needed.

One morning a photographer showed up, escorted by a Fischer representative. He moved about, taking pictures of a number of the most important pieces, and then asked Hanna for assistance in adjusting one of the larger paintings displayed on an easel. “To get the light correct,” he explained. He took several shots, from this angle, then that, asking for Hanna’s help in moving the painting against a more neutral background. She felt a small warm spike deep in her chest as she realized he was not only taking photographs of the art, he was clearly aiming the camera directly at her!

Hanna waited, watching each day, her eyes scanning the preview hall, the entryway, searching for Johann Keller.

She knew it would be difficult during the day, as her assistant was always near, but she wondered if she might have some freedom in the evening. One night, after supper, after putting her ear to the adjoining door and hearing no movement, she unlocked the door to her room and entered the hall. All was quiet. If she knew where to find Johann, she could just leave, but then she glanced back and there he was—her young escort. Did he never sleep?

“Is there something you need, Frau Fleischmann?” he asked.

“I was feeling restless,” she answered, attempting to steady her voice. “I thought maybe a walk along the lake.”

“The hotel is locked each evening,” he said with a subtle smile. “For security of the guests.”

It was then that Hanna realized she could neither leave nor return at night. She had a key to her own room, though she was escorted to and from it each day. But she did not have a key to get in or out of the hotel at night.

“I will accompany you,” he offered, holding up a key.

It was a warm, late-spring evening. They walked together along the lake, not even speaking. She knew the young man’s name was Helmut, but she knew little about him other than that he was from Dresden. She could see there was little point in getting to know these polite young men who were assigned to look after her. Surely she did not want to get into a political discussion, and none of them seemed to know much about art. She wondered if there was a hidden plan to prevent her from befriending her assistants. She thought of Günter, and the drive they had taken that early November morning, of the horrors they had discovered. She wondered where he was now.

After their walk, Hanna was escorted back to her room.

“I will see you in the morning,” Helmut said stiffly.

“Yes, tomorrow.” She entered her room and locked the door.

The next morning, Hanna stepped out before breakfast had been delivered to her room, and within seconds Helmut’s door opened and his uncombed head popped out, the young man rubbing his eyes. It was as though he could hear her coming and going. If Hanna had been given an extra sense in her ability to hear the colors, her assistant had surely been gifted with an extra ear. Even though she had her own room key, he could hear every time she opened the door. She could not come or go without his being aware.

“Oh, there it is,” she said innocently as the breakfast cart came rolling down the hall. “I’m so hungry.” Hanna held the door for the boy with the cart, and realized that even if she could leave the hotel, there was no point in her running away unless she had a plan of escape. She knew she would have to receive help from someone.